Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds
Are lips—and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words—
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
Then desolately fall,
O! God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy—
Of the trifles that it may.