Ne'er ask the hour -- what is it to us <br />How Time deals out his treasures? <br />The golden moments lent us thus <br />Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. <br />If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, <br />I'd number each glorious second: <br />But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, <br />Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd. <br />Then fill the cup -- what is it to us <br />How time his circle measures? <br />The fairy hours we call up thus <br />Obey no wand but Pleasure's. <br /> <br />Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, <br />Till Care, one summer's morning, <br />Set up, among his smiling flowers, <br />A dial, by way of warning. <br />But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, <br />As long as its light was glowing, <br />Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on, <br />And how fast that light was going. <br />So fill the cup -- what is it to us <br />How time his circle measures? <br />The fairy hours we call up thus <br />Obey no wand but Pleasure's.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ne-er-ask-the-hour/
