Poem by Thomas Moore

Her Picture

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art,
No more will let thee soothe my pain;
Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart
Some pangs, to give thee back again.

Tell her, the smile was not so dear,
With which she made the semblance mine,
As bitter is the burning tear,
With which I now the gift resign.

Yet go -- and could she still restore,
As some exchange for taking thee.
The tranquil look which first I wore,
When her eyes found me calm and free;

Could she give back the careless flow,
The spirit that my heart then knew --
Yet, no, 'tis vain -- go, picture, go --
Smile at me once, and then -- adieu! 

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 38
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17

Print

1543 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version