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Thomas Moore - Nay, Tell Me Not, Dear
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Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns 
   One charm of feeling, one fond regret; 
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 
   Are all I`ve sunk in its bright wave yet. 
Ne`er hath a beam 
Been lost in the stream 
   That ever was shed from thy form or soul; 
The spell of those eyes, 
The balm of thy sighs, 
   Still float on the surface, and hallow by bowl. 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal 
   One blissful dream of the heart from me; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim`s zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 

They tell us the Love in his fairy bower 
   Had two blush-roses, of birth divine; 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow`s shower, 
   But bathed the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds 
That drunk of the floods 
   Distill`d by the rainbow decline and fade; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dyed 
   All blush`d into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal 
   One blissful dream of the heart from me; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim`s zeal, 
   The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
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