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.= George McRae