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    To - -

    by Edgar Allan Poe
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    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.



    TO ---

    I HEED not that my earthly lot

    Hath-little of Earth in it--

    That years of love have been forgot

    In the hatred of a minute:--

    I mourn not that the desolate

    Are happier, sweet, than I,

    But that you sorrow for my fate

    Who am a passer-by.

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