Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          WHEN’ER I see those smiling eyes,

                So full of hope, and joy, and light,

          As if no cloud could ever rise,

                To dim a heaven so purely bright —

          I sigh to think how soon that brow

                In grief may lose its every ray,

          And that light heart, so joyous now,

                Almost forget it once was gay.

          For time will come with all its blights,

                The ruin’d hope, the friend unkind,

          And love, that leaves, where’er it lights,

                A chill’d or burning heart behind:

          While youth, that now like snow appears,

                Ere sullied by the darkening rain,

          When once ’tis touch’d by sorrow’s tears,

                Can never shine so bright again.