When Night Brings The Hour.

A poem by Thomas Moore

When night brings the hour
Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
Name but his name,
And his best kiss
For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
Were turning to fire.
Guess who he is,
Name but his name,
And his best kiss
For reward you may claim.

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