Poem by Thomas Moore

* * *

             (SAVOYARD AIR.)

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
  And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
  I from my casement lean.
"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"
  Never to mortal ear
    Could words, tho' warm they be,
  Speak Passion's language half so clear
    As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek,
  And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho' they naught to others speak,
  He knows their language well.
"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"I come, my love!—thine, thine till break of day."
  Oh, weak the power of words,
    The hues of painting dim
  Compared to what those simple chords
    Then say and paint to him!

1. To-Day, Dearest! Is Ours
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 69
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 26
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 60
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 24

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