text by the Irish poet, Thomas Moore
Go, let me weep–there’s bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep.
Leave me to sigh o’er hours that flew
More idly than the summer’s wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.–
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
O’er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
Leave me to sigh.
poem – Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
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