Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night,

                And I’ll tell you your fortune truly

          As ever ’twas told, by the new-moon’s light,

                To a young maiden, shining as newly.

          But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

                Lest haply the stars should deceive me,

          Such secrets between you and me and the sky

                Should never go farther, believe me.

          If at that hour the heavens be not dim,

                My science shall call up before you

          A male apparition — the image of him

                Whose destiny ’tis to adore you.

          And if to that phantom you’ll be kind,

                So fondly around you he’ll hover,

          You’ll hardly, my dear, any difference find

                ’Twixt him and a true living lover.

          Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,

                He’ll kneel, with a warmth of devotion —

          An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite

                You’d scarcely believe had a notion.

          What other thoughts and events may arise,

                As in destiny’s book I’ve not seen them,

          Must only be left to the stars and your eyes

                To settle, ere morning, between them.