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 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.