Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly

To the lone vale we lov’d, when life shone warm in thine eye;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

And tell me our love is remember’d, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song ’twas once such pleasure to hear!

When our voices commingling breath’d, like one, on the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, O my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.