by Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

How oft, when watching stars
Language: English 
Available translation(s): FRE
Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
I from my casement lean.
"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"
Never to mortal ear
Could words, tho' warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear
As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek,
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho' they naught to others speak,
He knows their language well.
"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"I come, my love! -- thine, thine till break of day."
Oh, weak the power of words,
The hues of painting dim,
Compar'd to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!

Confirmed with Thomas Moore, A New Edition from the last London Edition, Boston: Lee and Shepard; New York: Lee, Shepard, & Dillingham, 1876.


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  • FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Souvent, lorsque les étoiles de garde pâlissent", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2011-07-17
Line count: 20
Word count: 137