Guess, Guess.
By Thomas Moore
I love a maid, a mystic maid,
Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.
I find the lustre of her brow,
Come o'er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o'er all so rich a glow
As makes even tears seem full of light:
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.