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 52
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 38
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56

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