Page:Irish Melodies.djvu/52

30 back the virgin page,
 * White and unwritten still;

Some hand, more calm and sage,
 * The leaf must fill.

Thoughts come, as pure as light,
 * Pure as even you require;

But oh! each word I write
 * Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book;
 * Oft shall my heart renew,

When on its leaves I look,
 * Dear thoughts of you!

Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
 * Like you, too bright and fair

To let wild passion write
 * One wrong wish there!