All That's Bright Must Fade. (Indian Air.)

All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
    The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
    To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize
    Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
    That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
    In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
    That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But to be lost when sweetest!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter II.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To The Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

She Sung Of Love.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Soon Return.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Oh, Do Not Look So Bright And Blest.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest,
    For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
    That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
    A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
    When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
    For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
    That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things
    The soonest fleet and die?--
That when most light is on their wings,
    They're then but spread to fly!
And, sadder still, the pain will stay--
    The bliss no more appears;
As rainbows take their light away,
    And leave us but the tears!
Then look not thou so bright and blest...

Thomas Moore

Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
    So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
    To dim a heaven so purely bright--
I sigh to think how soon that brow
    In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
    Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,
    The ruined hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
    A chilled or burning heart behind:--
While youth, that now like snow appears,
    Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears
    Can ever shine so bright again.

Thomas Moore

Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
    Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
    Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
    Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
    Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
    Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
    Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
    Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
    Bright to the last drop flowing!

Thomas Moore

Love's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore

I'd Mourn The Hopes.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,
    If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
    If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,
    With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
    That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,
    While fate leaves thy love to me;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,
    Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
    Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
    My own love, my only dear!

And tho' the hope be gone, love,
    That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
    More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me
    Along the path I...

Thomas Moore

Do Not Say That Life Is Waning.

Do not say that life is waning,
    Or that hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
    Life is in the horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying,
    Tho' thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
    Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
    That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest.
    That is lingering now o'er thine.

Thomas Moore