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!