Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIX.
By Thomas Moore
Topics: classic
[1] Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep; Hark! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul; Tell me, tell me, is not this All a stilly scene of bliss? "Who, my girl, would pass it by? Surely neither you nor I."
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