Hush, Hush!

"Hush, hush!"--how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
    Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
    One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
    Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"
    The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
    While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
    One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
    Whispering, "Hush, hush!"

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 Sinking Fund Cried.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ode To The Sublime Porte.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Reverend Pamphleteer. A Romantic Ballad.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Rosa.

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.

I've A Secret To Tell Thee.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,--
    Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
    Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
    Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
    The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
    When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
    Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,^[1] who born among
    The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,--his only song
    To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

Thomas Moore

At Night.

^[1]


At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
    Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
    That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
    Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
    With those we love exchanged at night!

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

Echo.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
    To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
    Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
    And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
    The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
    And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
    Breathed back again!

Thomas Moore

Song: Hush, Hush! Tread Softly!

1

Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very well
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear.
Tho' you've padded his night-cap O sweet Isabel!
Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet,
Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,
Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear!
For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

2

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;
And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
Hath fled to her bower, well knowing I want
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
But my Isabel's eyes, and her li...

John Keats

Wake Up, Sweet Melody.

    Wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power,
One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray--
Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

    Ask the fond nightingale,
        When his sweet flower
    Loves most to hear his song,
        In her green bower?
Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long,
Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.
    Then wake up, sweet melody!
        Now is the hour
    When young and loving hearts
        Feel most thy power.

Thomas Moore