As A Beam O'er The Face Of The Waters May Glow.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes.
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting--

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain,
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

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

The Legacy.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Here, Take My Heart.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Silence Is In Our Festal Halls.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Incantation. From The New Tragedy Of "The Brunswickers."

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.

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

Stanzas.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.
Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
    Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead;
And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,
    As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone
    My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,
    Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire
    The pearl of the soul may be melted away;
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire
    We inherit from heaven, may be quenched ...

Thomas Moore

With Moonlight Beaming.

With moonlight beaming
    Thus o'er the deep,
Who'd linger dreaming
    In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day,--
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
    The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
    The shining sea.

To halls of splendor
    Let great ones hie;
Thro' light more tender
    Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
And as we lend 'em
    Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send 'em
    More sweet again.

Thomas Moore

Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
    And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
    Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow.
No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours,
    Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
    Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile--
    May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
    And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
    If it were not with friendship and love intertwined:
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
    When the...

Thomas Moore

I Saw From The Beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
    A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
    The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
    So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
    And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
    The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;--
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
    Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
    When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul, like ...

Thomas Moore

Happiness.

Fair Happiness, I've courted thee,
And used each cunning art and wile,
Which lovers use with maidens coy,
To win one tender glance or smile.
Thou hast been coy as any maid,
So lofty, distant, stern and cold,
And guarded from a touch of mine,
As miser guards his precious gold.

To win a smile from thee, did seem
A painful, fruitless thing to try,
Thy scornful, thin and cruel lips,
No pity gave thy steely eye.

Thy countenance, so sternly set,
Did seem to say how vain to knock
At thy heart's door, for all within
Was hard, as adamantine rock.

Thus unto me thy visage seem'd,
But faces do not always tell
The feelings of the heart within,
Or thoughts that underneath them dwell.

For e'en at times, I saw thy face
Relax, a...

Thomas Frederick Young