by Thomas Moore
To sigh, yet feel no pain,
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by;
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won;
This is love, careless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchill'd, unmoved,
To love in wintry age the same
As first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore
To such refined excess,
That though the heart would break with more,
We could not live with less;
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.
Source:The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.