To .......

A poem by Thomas Moore

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,
When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
Than bask in the noon of another.

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