Thomas Moore ( )


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, theyre withering too!
Whether decline has thinnd my hair,
Im 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 Id give.



Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From Irish Melodies. 61. Id Mourn the Hopes
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 3
  3. From Irish Melodies. 10. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
  4. From Irish Melodies. 92. ODonohues Mistress
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 55


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