Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVIII.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVIII.' by Thomas Moore

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy