---

Thomas Moore - Fly Not Yet
Work rating: Low

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. 

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 those that sparkle here?
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.