Our First Young Love.

Our first young love resembles
    That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles and weeps and trembles
Thro' April's earliest day.
And not all life before us,
    Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed a lustre o'er us
    Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander;
            Our autumn beam
            May, like a dream
    Of heaven, die calm away;
But no--let life before us
    Bring all the light it may,
'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us
    Like that first youthful ray.

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

Intended Tribute To The Author Of An Article In The Last Number Of The Quarterly Review, Entitled "Romanism In Ireland."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter IV. From Phelim Connor To ----

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Kiss.

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's Young Dream.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
        My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
        Was love, still love.
        New hope may bloom,
        And days may come,

    Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream;
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
    As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
            When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,
            To smile at last;
            He'll never meet
            A joy so sweet,
    In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
    His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blushed to hear
    The one lov'd name.
...

Thomas Moore

In The Morning Of Life.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
    And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,
    And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time
    We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;--
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,
    But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,
    Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,
    First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;
Then, then is the time when affection holds sway
    With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;
Love, nursed among pleasures, is faith...

Thomas Moore

The Day Of Love.

    The beam of morning trembling
        Stole o'er the mountain brook,
    With timid ray resembling
        Affection's early look.
Thus love begins--sweet morn of love!

    The noon-tide ray ascended,
        And o'er the valley's stream
    Diffused a glow as splendid
        As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands--warm noon of love!

    But evening came, o'ershading
        The glories of the sky,
    Like faith and fondness fading
        From passion's altered eye.
Thus love declines--cold eve of love!

Thomas Moore

When First That Smile. (Venetian Air.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,
    Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
    Seemed in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
    Of golden fruit and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
    And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
    Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness--
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,
    Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
    Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray--
    Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

Thomas Moore

To .... ....

The world has just begun to steal
    Each hope that led me lightly on;
I felt not, as I used to feel,
    And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,
    No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No circling arms to draw me near--
    'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye,
    Oh! something seemed to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
    And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost
    Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Some feeling which my heart had lost
    And peace which far had learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,
    Hope looked so new and Love so kind.
That, though I mourn, I yet forgive
    The ruin the...

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