Poems by Thomas Moore

The young [rose I give thee, so dewy and bright]1,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the [moon]2, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he [sung]3.

Oh, take [thou]4 this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.