There's not a look, a word of thine...

By Thomas Moore

There's not a look, a word of thine
My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine,
Which I remember not!

There never yet a murmur fell
From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering spell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,
Like something heaven had sung.

Ah! that I could, at once, forget
All, all that haunts me so --
And yet, thou witching girl! -- and yet,
To die were sweeter than to let
The loved remembrance go!

No; if this slighted heart must see
Its faithful pulse decay,
Oh! let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be
Consumed in sweets away!