Love And Marriage.

        Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.
        SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.


Still the question I must parry,
    Still a wayward truant prove:
Where I love, I must not marry;
    Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation,
    With the least presuming mind;
Learned without affectation;
    Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid;
    Gay, but not too lightly free;
Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid:
    Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over,
    All that heaven to earth allows.
I should be too much her lover
    Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;
    Summer garments suit him best;
Bliss itself is not worth having,
    If we're by compulsion blest.

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

Stanzas.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Pretty Rose-Tree.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

You Remember Ellen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXIII.

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.

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
    They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
    When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
    Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
    Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
    Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
    The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
    With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into...

Thomas Moore

Woman.

Away, away--you're all the same,
    A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
    To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
    From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
    Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
    More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
    Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
    Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
    If e'er I love such things again.

Thomas Moore

Love And Reason.

        Quand l'homme commence à raissonner,
        il cesse de sentir.--J. J. ROUSSEAU.


'Twas in the summer time so sweet,
    When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That--who, of all the world, should meet,
    One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
    While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
    And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
    While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
    A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past,
    Should find that sunny morning chill,
For still the shadow Reason cast
Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain...

Thomas Moore

To .......

Remember him thou leavest behind,
    Whose heart is warmly bound to thee,
Close as the tenderest links can bind
    A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,
    Though many seemed my soul to snare;
'Twas passion when I thought I loved,
    'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme,
    Beguiled me only while she warmed;
Twas young desire that fed the dream,
    And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been
    If I had still in freedom roved,
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,
    For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel
    Had never to this heart been known;
But then, the joys that lovers steal,
    Should they...

Thomas Moore

Love's Light Summer-Cloud.
Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us--
Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.
Oh, if to love thee more
Each hour I number o'er--
If this a passion be
Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;
Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,
Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.
Oh, if there be a charm,
In love, to banish harm--
If pleas...
Thomas Moore

The Ring.
TO .... ....

No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring:
Oh! think, how many a future year,
Of placid smile and downy wing,
May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,
Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;
Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,
To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,--
Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,
If heaven can ever bless the tie
Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,
Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;
Go--hie thee to the sage's book,
And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,
That brings my pulses close to thine,
Tells me I want thy aid as ...
Thomas Moore