Томас Мур (Thomas Moore)

From “Irish Melodies”. 7. Fly Not Yet

          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?

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