I Love the Night.

I love the night when the moon streams bright
    On flowers that drink the dew--
When cascades shout as the stars peep out,
    From boundless fields of blue;
But dearer far than moon or star,
    Or flowers of gaudy hue,
Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills,
    I love, I love, love--you!

I love to stray at the close of the day,
    Through groves of forest-trees,
When gushing notes from song-birds' throats
    Are vocal in the breeze.
I love the night--the glorious night--
    When hearts beat warm and true;
But far above the night, I love,
    I love, I love, love--you!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Seasons of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Only Thine.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Whip-Poor-Will.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Stag-Hunt.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Star of Love.

The star of love now shines above,
    Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves
    Its serenade for thee.
The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
    Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear till thou appear
    To decorate the night.

The light of noon streams from the moon,
    Though with a milder ray
O'er hill and grove, like woman's love,
    It cheers us on our way.
Thus all that's bright--the moon, the night,
    The heavens, the earth, the sea,
Exert their powers to bless the hours
    We dedicate to thee.

George Pope Morris

Starlight Recollections.

'Twas night.    Near the murmuring Saone,
    We met with no witnesses by,
But such as resplendently shone
    In the blue-tinted vault of the sky:
Your head on my bosom was laid,
    As you said you would ever be mine;
And I promised to love, dearest maid,
    And worship alone at your shrine.

Your love on my heart gently fell
    As the dew on the flowers at eve,
Whose blossoms with gratitude swell,
    A blessing to give and receive:
And I knew by the glow on your cheek,
    And the rapture you could not control,
No power had language to speak
    The faith or content of your soul.

I love you as none ever loved--
    As the steel to the star I am true;
And I, dearest maiden, have proved
    That none ever loved me but you.
Ti...

George Pope Morris

To The Evening Star.

The woods waved welcome in the breeze,
    When, many years ago,
Lured by the songs of birds and bees,
    I sought the dell below;
And there, in that secluded spot,
    Where silver streamlets roved,
Twined the green ivy round the cot
    Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand
    To listen to her vow!
Still feel the pressure of her hand
    Upon my burning brow!
And here, as in the days gone by,
    With joy I meet her yet,
And mark the love-light of her eyes,
    Fringed with its lash of jet.

O fleeting vision of the past!
    From memory glide away!
Ye were too beautiful to last,
    Too good to longer stay!
But why, attesting evening star,
    This sermon sad recall:
"THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TI...

George Pope Morris

Venetian Serenade.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--Arise
And shame the bright stars
    With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
    Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water--
    My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
    We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
    A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
    Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--The day
Brings warder and cloister!
    Away, then--away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
    Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
    Then he to his love!

George Pope Morris

Tis Now the Promised Hour. A Serenade.

The fountains serenade the flowers,
    Upon their silver lute--
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
    The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
    Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
    And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
    To light thee to thy bower.
The day we dedicate to care--
    To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
    In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given--
    The moonlight on the tree--
And all the bliss of earth and heaven--
    Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
Wh...

George Pope Morris

Mary.

One balmy summer night, Mary,
    Just as the risen moon
Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,
    We left the gay saloon;
And in a green, sequestered spot,
    Beneath a drooping tree,
Fond words were breathed, by you forgot,
    That still are dear to me, Mary,
        That still are dear to me.

Oh, we were happy, then, Mary--
    Time lingered on his way,
To crowd a lifetime in a night,
    Whole ages in a day!
If star and sun would set and rise
    Thus in our after years,
The world would be a paradise,
    And not a vale of tears, Mary,
        And not a vale of tears.

I live but in the past, Mary--
    The glorious day of old!
When love was hoarded in the heart,
    As misers hoard their gold:
And often like a bridal...

George Pope Morris