Poem by Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 23. Come, Send Round the Wine

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
	To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment’s a flower too fair and brief,
	To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
	But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
	Deserves not the comfort they shed o’er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
	In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
	If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,
	To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
	Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 38
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56

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