Ne'er Ask The Hour.

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us
    How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus,
    Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
    I'd number each glorious second:
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
    Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.
Then fill the cup--what is it to us
    How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
    Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
    Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
    A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
    As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on,
    And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup--what is it to us
    How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
    Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

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 Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Copy Of An Intercepted Despatch.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To A Lady, With Some Manuscript Poems, On Leaving The Country.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Thoughts On The Late Destructive Propositions Of The Tories.[1] By A Common-Councilman.

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.

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

One Bumper At Parting.

One bumper at parting!--tho' many
    Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
    Remains to be crowned by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,
    Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
    It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come,--may our life's happy measure
    Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
    They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant
    To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
    That mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
    Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours--
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
    Than when his way lies among...

Thomas Moore

How Dear To Me The Hour.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
    And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
    And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
    Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
    And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Thomas Moore

This Life Is All Checkered With Pleasures And Woes

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,
    That chase one another like waves of the deep,--
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
    Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
    That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.
    The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy,
    With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
    And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
    Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
    And neglected his t...

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

Song.

Where is the heart that would not give
    Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live--
    Full, to the brim, of life's delights?
        Look, look around,
        This fairy ground,
    With love-lights glittering o'er;
        While cups that shine
        With freight divine
    Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,
    Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment's flowers
    Springing up fresh beneath the eye,
        Wouldst thou, or thou,
        Forego what's now,
    For all that Hope may say?
        No--Joy's reply,
        From every eye,
    Is, "Live we while we may,"

Thomas Moore