Poem by Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 86. Ne’er Ask the Hour

          Ne’er ask the hour — what is it to us
                How Time deals out his treasures?
          The golden moments lent us thus
                Are not his coin, but Pleasure’s.
          If counting them o’er could add to their blisses,
                I’d number each glorious second:
          But moments of joy are, like Lesbia’s kisses,
                Too quick and sweet to be reckon’d.
          Then fill the cup — what is it to us
                How time his circle measures?
          The fairy hours we call up thus
                Obey no wand but Pleasure’s.

          Young Joy ne’er thought of counting hours,
                Till Care, one summer’s morning,
          Set up, among his smiling flowers,
                A dial, by way of warning.
          But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
                As long as its light was glowing,
          Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
                And how fast that light was going.
          So fill the cup — what is it to us
                How time his circle measures?
          The fairy hours we call up thus
                Obey no wand but Pleasure’s.

1. Oft, When the Watching Stars Grow Pale
2. To-Day, Dearest! Is Ours
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 45
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 38
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 65

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