Fly not yet! the fount that played,

In times of old, through Ammon’s shade,

Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began

To burn when night was near;

And thus should woman’s heart and looks

At noon be cold as winter brooks,

Nor kindle till the night, returning,

Brings their genial hour for burning.

O! stay-O! stay –

When did morning ever break

And find such beaming eyes awake

And those that sparkle here!

>Thomas Moore

I wonder how it could have felt to be the Muse of such an attention.

I found this poem in a chocolate bar. I love it.