(570 BC – 488 BC)

Anacreon Poems

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

The Women Tell Me Every Day

The women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away.
'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry,
'Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!'
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!

Read the full of The Women Tell Me Every Day

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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