From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 44
Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Cull’d from Cupid’s balmy bowers, In the bowl of Bacchus steep, Till with crimson drops they weep. Twine the rose, the garland twine, Every leaf distilling wine; Drink and smile, and learn to think That we were born to smile and drink. Rose, thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower; Rose, thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild, Even the Gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillet braids, When with the blushing sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces. Then bring me showers of roses, bring, And shed them o’er me while I sing. Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, I lead some bright nymph through the dance Commingling soul with every glance!
Thomas Moore’s other poems:
