Song.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art
In passion's moment breathed to me;
Yet, no--it must not, will not part,
'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,
And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
With all the warmth of truth imprest;
Yet, no--the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,
Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day,
My heart received, I thought, from thine;
Yet, no--allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,
As sweetly as they've ruined mine.