Go, Let Me Weep. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
    Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
    In bright exhalement reach the skies.
        Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.--
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
    O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
        Leave me to sigh.

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

Young Jessica.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To A Lady. On Her Singing.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Letter From Larry O'Branigan To The Rev. Murthagh O'Mulligan.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Julia Weeping.

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.

Weep Not For Those. (Air.--Avison.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
    'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
    To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
    In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
    Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,^[1]
    Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre ...

Thomas Moore

Elegiac Stanzas.

        Sic juvat perire.


When wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
    Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
    'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,--
None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,--
None but the whispering winds of heaven!

Thomas Moore

To Rosa.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
    At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
    Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
    Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
    From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
    That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
    Thou shalt weep them again and again.

Thomas Moore

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
    As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
    That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
    Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
    I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
    Been like our Lagenian mine,^[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
    All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
    Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
    Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,^[2]
    That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
    Has Hope been ...

Thomas Moore

On The Death Of A Lady,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep
    Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,
Then will I weep, in anguish weep,
    Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,
    And mingles in our misery;
Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal--
    Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,
    But sullen clouds the day deform;
Like thee was that young, orient beam,
    Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,
    So linked thy soul was with the sky;
Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,
    We thought thou wert not formed to die.

Thomas Moore

Peace, Peace To Him That's Gone!

    When I am dead.
    Then lay my head
In some lone, distant dell,
    Where voices ne'er
    Shall stir the air,
Or break its silent spell.

    If any sound
    Be heard around,
Let the sweet bird alone,
    That weeps in song,
    Sing all night long,
"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

    Yet, oh, were mine
    One sigh of thine,
One pitying word from thee,
    Like gleams of heaven,
    To sinners given,
Would be that word to me.

    Howe'er unblest,
    My shade would rest
While listening to that tone;--
    Enough 'twould be
    To hear from thee,
"Peace, peace, to him that gone."

Thomas Moore