Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

                    OH! doubt me not — the season

                          Is o’er when Folly made me rove,

                    And now the vestal, Reason,

                          Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

          Although this heart was early blown,

                And fairest hands disturb’d the tree,

          They only shook some blossoms down —

                Its fruit has all been kept for thee.

                    Then doubt me not — the season

                          Is o’er when Folly made me rove,

                    And now the vestal, Reason,

                          Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

                    And though my lute no longer

                          May sing of Passion’s ardent spell,

                    Yet, trust me, all the stronger

                          I feel the bliss I do not tell.

          The bee through many a garden roves,

                And hums his lay of courtship o’er,

          But when he finds the flower he loves,

                He settles there, and hums no more.

                    Then doubt me not — the season

                          Is o’er when Folly kept me free,

                    And now the vestal, Reason,

                          Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.