Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 61

YOUTH'S endearing charms are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom,
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying!
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;
And, when once the journey 's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 85. Oh For the Swords of Former Time
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 24
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 3
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 103. The Mountain Spite
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 51

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