Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          SHE sung of Love, while o’er her lyre

                The rosy rays of evening fell,

          As if to feed with their soft fire

                The soul within that trembling shell.

          The same rich light hung o’er her cheek,

                And play’d around those lips that sung

          And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

                If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

          But soon the West no longer burn’d,

                Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;

          And, when to gaze again I turn’d,

                The minstrel’s form seem’d fading too.

          As if her light and heaven’s were one,

                The glory all had left that frame;

          And from her glimmering lips the tone,

                As from a parting spirit, came.

          Who ever loved, but had the thought

                That he and all he loved must part?

          Fill’d with this fear, I flew and caught

                The fading image to my heart —

          And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?

                Oh light of youth’s resplendent day!

          Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

                And thus, like sunshine die away?"