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
And maids who love the moon
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made
'Tis then their soft, beguiling glow
Will set the tides and wine aflow
For maids who love the moon
Joy so seldom weaves like this tonight
But, oh, 'tis pain to break its links so soon
Oh, stay, oh, stay
Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure's like the midnight flower
Though icy cold by day we ran
Yet still like souls of mirth we began
To burn when night was near
