Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

I FOUND her not—the chamber seem’d

Like some divinely haunted place,

Where fairy forms had lately beam’d,

And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt, as if her lips had shed

A sigh around her, ere she fled,

Which hung, as on a melting lute,

When all the silver chords are mute,

There lingers still a trembling breath

After the note’s luxurious death,

A shade of song, a spirit air

Of melodies which had been there….