Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/131

104 No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—

The light'ning of his eagle eye—

How was it that Ambition crept,

Unseen, amid the revels there,

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt

In the tangles of Love's very hair?

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 enshrined

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 the truth that gold can never buy—

Of the baubles that it may.