Томас Мур (Thomas Moore)

From “Irish Melodies”. 95. Thee, Thee, Only Thee

          THE dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,
          The night’s long hours still find me thinking
                Of thee, thee, only thee.
          When friends are met, and goblets crown’d,
                And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
          Unreach’d by all that sunshine round,
                My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
                    By thee, thee, only thee.

          Whatever in fame’s high path could waken
          My spirit once, is now forsaken
                For thee, thee, only thee.
          Like shores, by which some headlong bark
                To the ocean hurries, resting never,
          Life’s scenes go by me, bright or dark,
                I know not, heed not, hastening ever
                    To thee, thee, only thee.

          I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
          And pain itself seems sweet when springing
                From thee, thee, only thee.
          Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
                Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
          This heart, howe’er the world may wake
                Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
                    By thee, thee, only thee.

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