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Poem by Thomas Moore


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Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart?
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this, --
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, -- or perish there too! 



Thomas Moore


Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. The Song of Fionnuala
  2. Ode To The Goddess Ceres
  3. There Are Sounds Of Mirth
  4. Oh, The Sight Entrancing
  5. Take Back The Virgin Page


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