Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
I found her notThomas Moore (17791852)
I
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam’d,
And left behind their odorous trace!
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….