Say, What Shall We Dance?

    Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
    Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Thro' bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?

    Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from every shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,
Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

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

Scepticism.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Poor Wounded Heart

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Silence Is In Our Festal Halls.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Grand Dinner Of Type And Co. A Poor Poet's Dream.[1]

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 Night Dance.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
    And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
    Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
    That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
            Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
    In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
    And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
    And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
    And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hea...

Thomas Moore

Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)

Gayly sounds the castanet,
    Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
    Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
Thro' all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
    Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread
    On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,
    And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
    Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved thro' many a day
    To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done,
    Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
    O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss--
    The words, whose parting to...

Thomas Moore

Mind Not Tho' Daylight.

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,--
Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking?
Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not,
Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.

See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing,
Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing:
While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea.
Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?

Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted?
Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted;
While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune,
The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.

Thomas Moore

Country Dance And Quadrille.

One night the nymph called country dance--
    (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
    That mincing thing, Mamselle quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down
    To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace--a Country Town--
    Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven
    "From London's gay and shining tracks--
"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,
    "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive
    "Would now for her acquaintance own me;
"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,
    "Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
    "And--spite of some few dandy Lancers.
"Wh...

Thomas Moore

The Lonely Dancer

I had no heart to join the dance,
    I danced it all so long ago -
Ah! light-winged music out of France,
    Let other feet glide to and fro,
Weaving new patterns of romance
    For bosoms of new-fallen snow.

But leave me thus where I may hear
    The leafy rustle of the waltz,
The shell-like murmur in my ear,
    The silken whisper fairy-false
Of unseen rainbows circling near,
    And the glad shuddering of the walls.

Another dance the dancers spin,
    A shadow-dance of mystic pain,
And other partners enter in
    And dance within my lonely brain -
The swaying woodland shod in green,
    The ghostly dancers of the rain;

The lonely dancers of the sea,
    Foam-footed on the sandy bar,
The wizard dance of wind and tree,

Richard Le Gallienne

Say, What Shall Be Our Sport To-Day? (Sicilian Air.)

Say, what shall be our sport today?
    There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
    For spirits like mine to dare!
'Tis like the returning bloom
    Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour--I scarce knew whom--
    And was blest--I scarce knew why.

Ay--those were days when life had wings,
    And flew, oh, flew so wild a height
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
    'Twas giddy with too much light.
And, tho' of some plumes bereft,
    With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
    For a few gay soarings yet.

Thomas Moore