I Care Not for the Idle State
I care not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasur'd gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervour of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odours, richly sighing,
Amidst my hoary tresses flying.
Today I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if tomorrow ne'er should shine;
But if tomorrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from every bowl of wine
The richest dropp on Bacchus' shrine!
For Death may come with brow unpleasant,
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us-drink no more!
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Comments about this poem (I Care Not for the Idle State by Anacreon )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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