Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          FLY not yet, ’tis just the hour,

          When pleasure, like the midnight flower

          That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

          Begins to bloom for sons of night,

                And maids who love the moon.

          ’Twas but to bless these hours of shade

          That beauty and the moon were made;

          ’Tis then their soft attractions glowing

          Set the tides and goblets flowing.

                Oh! stay, — Oh! stay, —

          Joy so seldom weaves a chain

          Like this to-night, that oh, ’tis pain

                To break its links so soon.

          Fly not yet, the fount that play’d

          In times of old through Ammon’s shade,

          Though icy cold by day it ran,

          Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

                To burn when night was near.

          And thus, should woman’s heart and looks

          At noon be cold as winter brooks,

          Nor kindle till the night, returning,

          Brings their genial hour for burning.

                Oh! stay, — Oh! stay, —

          When did morning ever break,

          And find such beaming eyes awake

                As those that sparkle here?