A poem by Thomas Moore

Where is the heart that would not give
Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live--
Full, to the brim, of life's delights?
Look, look around,
This fairy ground,
With love-lights glittering o'er;
While cups that shine
With freight divine
Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,
Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment's flowers
Springing up fresh beneath the eye,
Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's now,
For all that Hope may say?
No--Joy's reply,
From every eye,
Is, "Live we while we may,"

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