Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 51

Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though youth’s brilliant flush be thine,
Still I’m doom’d to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See in yonder flowery braid,
Cull’d for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily’s snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me.

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 10. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore
2. From “Irish Melodies”. 61. I’d Mourn the Hopes
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 70
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 15
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 59

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