O come, my dear, when evening flings Her veil of purple round, And zephyr, on his dewy wings, Sweeps o'er the flowery ground; When every bird of day is still, And stars are bright above, O come, my dear, and we will fill Our cup, and drink of love.
We'll fill it from the pure blue sky, And from the glowing west, And catch its spirit in thine eye, And in the small bird's nest; And take its sweetness from the flowers, Its freshness from the spring, Its coolness from the dewy hours, When night-hawks take the wing.
Then we will wander far away, Along the flowery vale, Where winds the brook, in sparkling play, And freshly blows the gale; And we will sit beneath the shade, That maples weave above, And on the mossy pillow laid, Will drink the cup of love.