Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger
In still suffering on, than in hoping again.
Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.
Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.
But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest.
Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger
In still suffering on, than in hoping again.
Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.
Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.
But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest.
Thomas Moore
beautiful
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