Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 29

Yes--loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still
But oh, it is the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, noble birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile,
From beauty's cheek one favoring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven--
Forgive him not, indignant heaven!
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms;
And oh! the worst of all its arts,
It renders asunder loving hearts.

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
3. To the Fire‑Fly
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 64

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