Thomas Moore

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

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.

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!

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and
that is eternity.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and
that is eternity.

I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest read more

I am nothing and to nothing tend,
On earth I nothing have and nothing claim,
Man's noblest works must have one common end,
And nothing crown the tablet of his name.