Thomas Moore

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye read more

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.

It seem'd as if each thought and look
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the read more

It seem'd as if each thought and look
And motion were that minute chain'd
Fast to the spot such root she took,
And--like a sunflower by a brook,
With face upturn'd--so still remain'd!

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He's na let a cat on the Sabbath read more

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He's na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An' Phoebus himsel' could na travel that day,
As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

This speck of life in time's great wilderness
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, read more

This speck of life in time's great wilderness
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future, two eternities!

But the trail of the serpent is over them all.

But the trail of the serpent is over them all.