Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

THE YOUNG May moon is beaming, love,

The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love;

How sweet to rove

Through Morna’s grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,

’Tis never too late for delight, my dear;

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star

More glorious far

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,

Or in watching the flight

Of bodies of light

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!