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Poem by Thomas Moore


From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 18


Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunnd by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire.
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them oer my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart?
Can brimming bowl, or flowerets dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?



Thomas Moore


Thomas Moore's other poems:
  1. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 26
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 75
  3. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 25
  4. Bright Be Thy Dreams
  5. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 38


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