The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has pas 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 thinned 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.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode Vii
Thomas Moore
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Poem topics: away, death, feel, hair, life, mirror, women, pretty, live, Valentine's Day, bloom, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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