Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely,

A place for lovers and lovers only,

        Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?

When, as the moonbeam that trembled o’er thee

Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,

        And read my hope’s sweet triumph in those eyes?

Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart,

Love bound us—never, never more to part!

And when I called thee by names the dearest

That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,—

        "My life, my only life!" among the rest;

In those sweet accents that still enthral me,

Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me?

        "Thy soul, thy soul’s the name I love best;

"For life soon passes,—but how blest to be

"That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"