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At Night.
By Thomas Moore
[1]
At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
With those we love exchanged at night!
Extra Info:
[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.
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| Janae on March 2, 2010, 2:43 pm | iLikee thee poem . Good job : )
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