Thomas Moore

May 28, 1780 - Feb 26, 1852


At The Mid Hour Of Night

by Thomas Moore

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think that, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To visit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, ev'n in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song, which once 'twas rapture to hear
When our voices both mingling, breath'd like one on the ear;
And, as echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.


The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.