Then, Fare Thee Well. (Old English Air.)

A poem by Thomas Moore

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!
The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!
The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen
One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
And chased it all away,
Dear love!
And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
Than years of mirth apart,
Dear love!
Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nurst mid vain regrets:
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,
Dear love!
Like them in tears it sets.

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