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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529958" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Fly Not Yet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529958" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, <br>When pleasure, like the midnight flower <br>That scorns the eye of vulgar light, <br>Begins to bloom for sons of night, <br>And maids who love the moon. <br>'Twas but to bless these hours of shade <br>That beauty and the moon were made; <br>'Tis then their soft attractions glowing <br>Set the tides and goblets flowing. <br>Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, -- <br>Joy so seldom weaves a chain <br>Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain <br>To break its links so soon. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529958" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Fly not yet, the fount that play'd <br>In times of old through Ammon's shade,<br>Though icy cold by day it ran, <br>Yet still, like souls of mirth, began <br>To burn when night was near. <br>And thus, should woman's heart and looks <br>At noon be cold as winter brooks, <br>Nor kindle till the night, returning, <br>Brings their genial hour for burning. <br>Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, -- <br>When did morning ever break, <br>And find such beaming eyes awake <br>As those that sparkle here?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Thomas+Moore">Thomas Moore</a></strong></div>

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