Thomas Moore ( )


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 19


Here recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this embowering shade;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Ruffled by the kissing breeze;
Sweet the little founts that weep,
Lulling soft the mind to sleep;
Hark! they whisper as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul.
Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss?
Who, my girl, would pass it by?
Surely neither you nor I.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 72
  2. From Irish Melodies. 114. Ive a Secret to Tell Thee
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 51
  4. From Irish Melodies. 70. Tis Gone, and for Ever
  5. From Irish Melodies. 102. And Doth Not a Meeting Like This


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