Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          They know not my heart, who believe there can be

          One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;

          Who think, while I see thee in beauty’s young hour,

          As pure as the morning’s first dew on the flower,

          I could harm what I love, — as the sun’s wanton ray

          But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

          No — beaming with light as those young features are,

          There’s a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:

          It is not that cheek — ’tis the soul dawning clear

          Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:

          As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,

          Is look’d up to the more, because Heaven lies there!