Thomas Moore

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
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All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose read more

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood;
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she read more

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye read more

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.