Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 7

The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away.
„Behold,” the pretty wantons cry,
„Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they’re withering too!”
Whether decline has thinn’d my hair,
I’m sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I’d give.

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 48
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 63
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 75
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50

Print

1523 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version