Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, <br />When pleasure, like the midnight flower <br />That scorns the eye of vulgar light, <br />Begins to bloom for sons of night, <br />And maids who love the moon. <br />'Twas but to bless these hours of shade <br />That beauty and the moon were made; <br />'Tis then their soft attractions glowing <br />Set the tides and goblets flowing. <br />Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, -- <br />Joy so seldom weaves a chain <br />Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain <br />To break its links so soon. <br /> <br />Fly not yet, the fount that play'd <br />In times of old through Ammon's shade, <br />Though icy cold by day it ran, <br />Yet still, like souls of mirth, began <br />To burn when night was near. <br />And thus, should woman's heart and looks <br />At noon be cold as winter brooks, <br />Nor kindle till the night, returning, <br />Brings their genial hour for burning. <br />Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, -- <br />When did morning ever break, <br />And find such beaming eyes awake <br />As those that sparkle here?<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fly-not-yet/
