Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 71

With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
Disportest in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade
Its antlered mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 65
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 25
3. From “Irish Melodies”. 115. Song of Innisfail
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 74

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