Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

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. Савойская ария • Oft, When the Watching Stars Grow Pale
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 69
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 34
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 99. ’Twas One of Those Dreams
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32

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