The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
 | III, IV. |
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HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS. |
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| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
211
HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.
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, though warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear
As do those notes to me!
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, though 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, though they nought 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!
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, though they nought 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.”
212
The hues of painting dim,
Compared to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |