Love Thee?

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly
    Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
    Were worthless without thee.
Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
    Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
    I'd spurn the draft away.
Love thee?--so well, so tenderly,
    Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
    Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot
    To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, even the humblest cot
    Were brighter than his throne.
Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
    For me would have no charms;
My only world thy gentle eyes--
    My throne thy circling arms!
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
    Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Whole realms of light and liberty
    Were worthless without thee.

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

Epigram. Dialogue Between A Dowager And Her Maid On The Night Of Lord Yarmouth's Fete.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

New Creation Of Peers. Batch The First.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Language Of Flowers.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Thoughts On Mischief.

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.

Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee?

Love thee, dearest? love thee?
    Yes, by yonder star I swear,
Which thro' tears above thee
    Shines so sadly fair;
Tho' often dim,
With tears, like him,
Like him my truth will shine,
    And--love thee, dearest? love thee?
Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee?
    No, that star is not more true;
When my vows deceive thee,
    He will wander too.
A cloud of night
May veil his light,
And death shall darken mine--
    But--leave thee, dearest? leave thee?
No, till death I'm thine.

Thomas Moore

Thee, Thee, Only Thee.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
        Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
    And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
    My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
        By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
        For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
    To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
    I know not, heed not, hastening ever
        To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
        From thee, thee, only t...

Thomas Moore

Tis All For Thee.

If life for me hath joy or light,
        'Tis all from thee,
My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,
        Are but of thee, of only thee.
Whate'er of hope or peace I know,
My zest in joy, my balm in woe,
To those dear eyes of thine I owe,
        'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes,
        Seemed doomed to thee;
Kept pure till then from other ties,
        'Twas all for thee, for only thee.
Like plants that sleep till sunny May
Calls forth their life my spirit lay,
Till, touched by Love's awakening ray,
        It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights,
        She speaks by thee;
And dim would shine her proudest lights,
        Unshared by thee, unshared by thee.
Whene'...

Thomas Moore

I Love But Thee.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
    And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
    By every dream I have when thou'rt away,
By every throb I feel when thou art near me,
    I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
    Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
    Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
    I love but thee--I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes,
    As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,
And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses
    A hue too bright to bless this world below,
And only fit to ...

Thomas Moore

For Thee Alone.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep,
Those eyes my light through every distant sea;
My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,
    The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee,
            To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye
    Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air,
When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly,
    The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there,
            Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore,
    While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,
Still whispering on that when some years are o'er,
    One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,
            Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour
    All e...

Thomas Moore

Remember Thee.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons--
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Thomas Moore