Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          WHILE gazing on the moon’s light,

                A moment from her smile I turn’d,

          To look at orbs that, more bright,

                In lone and distant glory burn’d.

                    But too far

                    Each proud star,

                For me to feel its warming flame;

                    Much more dear

                    That mild sphere,

                Which near our planet smiling came;

          Thus, Mary, be but thou my own,

                While brighter eyes unheeded play,

          I’ll love those moonlight looks alone

                That bless my home and guide my way.

          The day had sunk in dim showers,

                But midnight now, with lustre meet,

          Illumined all the pale flowers,

                Like hope upon a mourner’s cheek.

                    I said (while

                    The moon’s smile

          Play’d o’er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)

                    "The moon looks

                    On many brooks,

                The brook can see no moon but this;"

          And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

                For many a lover looks to thee,

          While oh! I feel there is but one,

                One Mary in the world for me.