From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 48
When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1] While my soul expands with glee, What are kings and crowns to me? If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away; Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; But let me, my budding vine! Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me-- Who think it better, wiser far To fall in banquet than in war.
Thomas Moore’s other poems:
