Guess, Guess.

I love a maid, a mystic maid,
    Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
    And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
    And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
    Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,
    Come o'er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
    Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
    But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o'er all so rich a glow
    As makes even tears seem full of light:
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

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 Tell-Tale Lyre.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Rosa. Written During Illness.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rich And Rare Were The Gems She Wore.[1]

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Pastoral Ballad.

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.

Who Is The Maid? St. Jerome's Love. (Air.--Beethoven.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
    Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
    Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
    Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
    Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
    From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
    As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast
    That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
    To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize
    And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
    Is ...

Thomas Moore

The Wonder.

Come, tell me where the maid is found.
    Whose heart can love without deceit,
And I will range the world around,
    To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,
    What air receives her blessed sigh,
A pilgrimage of years I'll roam
    To catch one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright,
    While truth within her bosom lies,
I'll gaze upon her morn and night,
    Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare,
    I'll own all miracles are true;
To make one maid sincere and fair,
    Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!

Thomas Moore

When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
    Were turning to fire.
Guess wh...

Thomas Moore

The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

        Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
        CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.


    There lies a shell beneath the waves,
    In many a hollow winding wreathed,
            Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
            This magic shell,
    From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
            Sicilia's sands of gold.
                It bears
    Upon its shining side the mystic notes
        Of those entrancing airs,^[1]
    The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!
    Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
            And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

    Go, ...

Thomas Moore

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.


When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

    When I would paint thee as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart--
The graceful child in Beauty's dawn
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out--like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own loved Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;--

Thomas Moore

To The Marchioness Dowager Of Donegall.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land
Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;^[1]
Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,^[2]
Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the canvas that creative eye,
And let its splendor, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your art divine;
Still, radiant...

Thomas Moore