Thomas Moore

May 28, 1780 - Feb 26, 1852


Fly Not Yet, 'Tis Just The Hour

by Thomas Moore

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flow'r,
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 these that sparkle here!


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