When ‘midst the gay I meet
That gentle smile of thine,
Though still on me it turns most sweet,
I scarce can call it mine:

But when to me alone
Your secret tears you show,
Oh, then I feel those tears my own,
And claim them while they flow.

Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura’s steep
Can smile in many a beam,
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep,
How bright soe’er it seem.

But, when some deep-felt ray,
Whose touch is fire, appears,
Oh, then the smile is warm’d away,
And, melting, turns to tears.

Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.

Moore, Thomas (1779 – 1852)