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Thomas Moore - She Sung of Love
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She sung of Love, while o`er her lyre 
   The rosy rays of evening fell, 
As if to feed with their soft fire 
   The soul within that trembling shell. 
The same rich light hung o`er her cheek, 
   And play`d around those lips that sung 
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, 
   If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. 

But soon the West no longer burn`d, 
   Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; 
And, when to gaze again I turn`d, 
   The minstrel`s form seem`d fading too. 
As if her light and heaven`s were one, 
   The glory all had left that frame; 
And from her glimmering lips the tone, 
   As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought 
   That he and all he loved must part? 
Fill`d with this fear, I flew and caught 
   The fading image to my heart — 
And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom? 
   Oh light of youth`s resplendent day! 
Must ye then lose your golden bloom, 
   And thus, like sunshine die away?"
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