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Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XIX.
By Thomas Moore
[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."
Extra Info:
[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.
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