Poem by Thomas Moore

To Rosa

Like who trusts to summer skies. 
      And puts his little bark to sea.  
Is he who, lur’d by smiling eyes, 
      Consigns his simple heart to thee. 
 
For fickle is the summer wind,  
      And sadly may the bark be tost; 
For thou art sure to change thy mind,  
      And then the wretched heart is lost.

1. To-Day, Dearest! Is Ours
2. Oft, When the Watching Stars Grow Pale
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 24
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 60
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 69

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