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Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)


From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 7


The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away.
„Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,
„Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they’re withering too!”
Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,
I’m sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I’d give.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50
  2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 3
  3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
  4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 20
  5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 70


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