On The Death Of A Lady,

A poem by Thomas Moore

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not formed to die.

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