Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 68

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 48
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 19
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 3
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 57. Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50

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