Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 19

Here recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this embowering shade;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Ruffled by the kissing breeze;
Sweet the little founts that weep,
Lulling soft the mind to sleep;
Hark! they whisper as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul.
Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss?
Who, my girl, would pass it by?
Surely neither you nor I.

1. To-Day, Dearest! Is Ours
2. Oft, When the Watching Stars Grow Pale
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 24
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 69
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 60

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