From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 22
The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron’s form; And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh! that a mirror’s form were mine, That I might catch that smile divine; And like my own fond fancy be, Reflecting thee, and only thee; Or could I be the robe which holds That graceful form within its folds; Or, turn’d into a fountain, lave Thy beauties in my circling wave. Would I were perfume for thy hair, To breathe my soul in fragrance there; Or, better still, the zone, that lies Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs. Or even those envious pearls that show So faintly round that neck of snow — Yes, I would be a happy gem Like them to hang, to fade like them. What more would thy Anacreon be? Oh, any thing that touches thee; Nay, sandals for those airy feet — Even to be trod by them were sweet!
Thomas Moore’s other poems:
