Anacreon

(570 BC – 488 BC)

Anacreon Poems

1. Three Songs 11/27/2003
2. As Late I Sought The Spangled Bowers 9/19/2012
3. The Accompt 9/19/2012
4. The Bee 9/19/2012
5. The Bowl Of Song 9/19/2012
6. Grave Me A Cup With Brilliant Grace 9/19/2012
7. I Care Not For The Idle State 9/19/2012
8. Instructions To A Painter 9/19/2012
9. I Pray Thee, By The Gods Above 9/19/2012
10. Listen To The Muse's Lyre 9/19/2012
11. Observe When Mother Earth Is Dry 9/19/2012
12. The Old Lover 9/19/2012
13. On A Basin Wherein Venus Was Engraved 9/19/2012
14. One Day, The Muses Twin'D The Hands 9/19/2012
15. On Himself 9/19/2012
16. The Phrygian Rock, That Braves The Storm 9/19/2012
17. Runaway Gold 9/19/2012
18. The Swallow 9/19/2012
19. Tell Me How To Punish Thee 9/19/2012
20. They Tell How Atys, Wild With Love 9/19/2012
21. Thou, Whose Soft And Rosy Hues 9/19/2012
22. The Vain Advice 9/19/2012
23. Vulcan! Hear Your Glorious Task 9/19/2012
24. Tell Me, Gentle Youth, I Pray Thee 9/19/2012
25. Praise Of Bacchus 9/19/2012
26. Love's Mark 9/19/2012
27. The Lute 9/19/2012
28. Beauty 9/19/2012
29. Now The Star Of Day Is High 9/19/2012
30. Mingle, My Boy, A Little Draught For Me 9/19/2012
31. Mirth 9/19/2012
32. Love's Night Walk 9/19/2012
33. Give Me The Harp Of Epic Song 9/19/2012
34. Count Me, On The Summer Trees 9/19/2012
35. And Now With All Thy Pencil's Truth 9/19/2012
36. Upon Cupid 9/19/2012
37. Tell Me, Why, My Sweetest Dove 9/19/2012
38. Gold 9/19/2012
39. Youthful Eld 9/19/2012
40. The Grasshopper 9/19/2012
Best Poem of Anacreon

Youth And Age

When I see the young men play,
Young methinks I am as they;
And my aged thoughts laid by,
To the dance with joy I fly:
Come, a flowery chaplet lend me;
Youth and mirthful thoughts attend me:
Age be gone, we'll dance among
Those that young are, and be young:
Bring some wine, boy, fill about;
You shall see the old man's stout;
Who can laugh and tipple too,
And be mad as well as you.

Read the full of Youth And Age

The Bee

Love, a Bee that lurk'd among
Roses saw not, and was stung:
Who for his hurt finger crying,
Running sometimes, sometimes flying,
Doth to his fair mother hie,
And O help, cries he, I die;
A wing'd snake hath bitten me,
Call'd by countrymen a Bee:
At which Venus, if such smart

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