Love, Wandering Thro' The Golden Maze.

Love, wandering through the golden maze
    Of my beloved's hair,
Traced every lock with fond delays,
    And, doting, lingered there.
And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;
    His heart was close confined,
For, every ringlet was a tie--
    A chain by beauty twined.

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

Cotton And Corn. A Dialogue.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tho' Humble The Banquet.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter IV.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

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

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.

The Wreath And The Chain.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain,
    I bring thee too a flowery wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,
    The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads,
    Bright as Minerva's yellow hair,
When the last beam of evening sheds
    Its calm and sober lustre there.
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,
    With sunlit drops of bliss among it,
And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love,
    To heal his lip when bees have stung it.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,
    Which answers when the tongue is loath,
Thou likest the form of either tie,
    And spreadest thy ...

Thomas Moore

Tis Sweet To Think.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
    We are sure to find something blissful and dear.
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
    Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
    It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
    To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
    To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
    'Twere a pity t...

Thomas Moore

A Study From The Antique.

Behold, my love, the curious gem
    Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
    Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
    Upon her hand this gem displayed,
Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse
    Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design!
    The more we gaze, it charms the more;
Come--closer bring that cheek to mine,
    And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth
    By some enamored nymph embraced--
Look, as she leans, and say in sooth
    Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind
    It seems in careless play to lie,
Yet presses gently, half inclined
    To bring the truant's ...

Thomas Moore

The Language Of Flowers.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,
    To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
    The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
    Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
    The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they
    But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
    What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
    A towering lily broken,--
Oh these may paint a grief
    No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
    The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
    My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
    Than gems the richest, rarest,--
From Truth's i...

Thomas Moore

Love And Time.

'Tis said--but whether true or not
    Let bards declare who've seen 'em--
That Love and Time have only got
    One pair of wings between 'em.
In Courtship's first delicious hour,
    The boy full oft can spare 'em;
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
    He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
        Then is Time's hour of play;
        Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,
    When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
    Love takes his turn to-morrow.
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
    The saddest and most trying,
When one begins to limp again,
    And t'other takes to flying.
        Then is Love's hour to stray;
        Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph...

Thomas Moore

When Twilight Dews.

When twilight dews are falling soft
    Upon the rosy sea, love,
I watch the star, whose beam so oft
    Has lighted me to thee, love.
And thou too, on that orb so dear,
    Dost often gaze at even,
And think, tho' lost for ever here,
    Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread,
    There's not a flower I see, love,
But brings to mind some hope that's fled,
    Some joy that's gone with thee, Love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
    When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here
    May turn to smiles in heaven.

Thomas Moore