Fly not yet; 't is 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.
Thomas Moore
Love
Fly not yet; 't is 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.
Thomas Moore
Fly not yet.
Recorded in John Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, ninth edition, 1905 printing.