So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.  

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have a rest.  

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

She walks in beauty, like the night     
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that 's best of dark and bright     
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:  
Thus mellow'd to that tender light          
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.  
One shade the more, one ray the less,     
Had half impair'd the nameless grace  
Which waves in every raven tress,     
Or softly lightens o'er her face;   
Where thoughts serenely sweet express     
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.    

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,     
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,   
But tell of days in goodness spent,  
A mind at peace with all below,     
A heart whose love is innocent!