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Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
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.
Thomas Moore
1779 – 1852
