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's other poems:
  1. From Irish Melodies. 108. Sing Sing Music Was Given
  2. From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 68
  3. From Irish Melodies. 85. Oh For the Swords of Former Time
  4. Bright Be Thy Dreams
  5. From Irish Melodies. 123. From This Hour the Pledge Is Given


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