My Heart And Lute.

I give thee all--I can no more--
    Tho' poor the offering be;
My heart and lute are all the store
    That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
    The soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
    Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas!
    To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
    Or gild them if they stay.
And even if Care at moments flings
    A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let Love but gently touch the strings,
    'Twill all be sweet again!

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

When The Wine-Cup Is Smiling. (Italian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of Old Puck.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Battle Eve.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Vii. The Extinguishers.

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.

Hush, Sweet Lute.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
    Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
    But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
    On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
    Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
    Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
    I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
    Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
    Than smile o'er any left us yet.

Thomas Moore

To .......

Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse
    Upon the gathering ills we see;
Oh! take thy harp and let me lose
    All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!--Though death were near,
    Thy song could make my soul forget--
Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,
    All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm
    Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,
    Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch
    We used to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much
    As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,
    Of all that looked so smiling then,
Now vanished, lost--oh, pray thee cease,
    I canno...

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

On Music.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
    Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
    In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
    Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
    In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along
    Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
    That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
    Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
    Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
    Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
    When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's ...

Thomas Moore

Thou Bidst Me Sing.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
    In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
    How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
    We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
    Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
    How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
    The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
    Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
    But, sadder far, for real bliss go...

Thomas Moore

Nights Of Music.

Nights of music, nights of loving,
    Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
    Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
    All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
    Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
    From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
    Not a beam, a leaf may die!

Thomas Moore