Poor Broken Flower.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
    Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath--
        In vain the sunbeams seek
        To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;
    Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,--
    Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
        In vain the smiles of all
        Like sunbeams round her fall:
The only smile that could from death awaken her,
    That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

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 Brunswick Club.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Parody Of A Celebrated Letter.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

All That's Bright Must Fade. (Indian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Love And The Novice.

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.

Tis The Last Rose Of Summer.

'Tis the last rose of summer
    Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
    Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
    No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
    Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
    To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping.
    Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
    Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
    Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
    When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
    The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
    And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
    This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore

Here's The Bower.

Here's the bower she loved so much,
    And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
    Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
    Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
    Where's the lip to breathe them?
                Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
    Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
    Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
    Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
    Nor Pity wept a dearer!
                Here's the bower, etc.

Thomas Moore

Anacreontic.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
    'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
    But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

    Like her delusive beam,
        'Twill steal away thy mind:
    But, truer than love's dream,
        It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
    These flowers were culled at noon;--
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
    But, ah! not half so soon.
        For though the flower's decayed,
            Its fragrance is not o'er;
        But once when love's betrayed,
            Its sweet life blooms no more.

Thomas Moore

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
    As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
    That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
    Each feeling that once was dear?--
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
    I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
    Been like our Lagenian mine,^[1]
Where sparkles of golden splendor
    All over the surface shine--
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
    Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
    Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,^[2]
    That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory--
    Has Hope been ...

Thomas Moore

One Dear Smile.

Couldst thou look as dear as when
    First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed thee then,
    Oh, how blissful life would be!
Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
    Joys that lie in slumber cold--
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
    One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now,
    But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow--
Never yet did Heaven allow
    Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me--
    Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
    One dear smile like those of old

Thomas Moore

Poor Wounded Heart

    Poor wounded heart, farewell!
        Thy hour of rest is come;
        Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
    Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking
    Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly aching,
    This life has been to thee.

    There--broken heart, farewell!
        The pang is o'er--
        The parting pang is o'er;
        Thou now wilt bleed no more.
    Poor broken heart, farewell!
No rest for thee but dying--
    Like waves whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus lying,
    Thou sleepst in peace at last--
        Poor broken heart, farewell!

Thomas Moore