Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

THE young May moon is beaming, love.

The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love.

          How sweet to rove,

          Through Morna’s grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake! — the heavens look bright, my dear,

’Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

          And the best of all ways

          To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

          And I, whose star,

          More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake! — till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,

          Or, in watching the flight

          Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.