by Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

Take hence the bowl
Language: English 
Take hence the bowl; -- though beaming 
  Brightly as bowl e'er shone, 
Oh it but sets me dreaming 
  Of happy days now gone.
There in its clear reflection,
  As in a wizard's glass, 
Lost hopes and dead affection,
  Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither 
  Some scene of bliss gone by; --
Bright lips too bright to wither,
  Warm hearts too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o'er me
  Of those long vanish'd years,
Alas! the wine before me 
  Seems turning all to tears!

Note at top of poem: Neapolitan Air


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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2010-04-19
Line count: 16
Word count: 88