Thomas Moore

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose read more

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood;
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
read more

Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
read more

Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!

Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye,
But turns to ashes on the lips!

Then should some cloud pass over
The brow of sire or lover,
Think 'tis the shade
read more

Then should some cloud pass over
The brow of sire or lover,
Think 'tis the shade
By Victory made
Whose wings right o'er us hover!