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.

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity.

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
read more

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.

Go where glory waits thee;
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.

Go where glory waits thee;
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she read more

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.