Shine Out, Stars!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble
    Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
    All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
    And the odors shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
    Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
    With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,
    Then would crown this bright May Eve!
Shine out, Stars! let night assemble
    Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
    To adorn this Eve of May.

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

Dear? Yes.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To His Serene Highness The Duke Of Montpensier On His Portrait Of The Lady Adelaide Forbes.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter II. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Vision. By The Author Of "Christabel."

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 Young May Moon.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
    How sweet to rove
    Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
    And the best of all ways
    To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
    And I, whose star,
    More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
    Or, in watching the flight
    Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Thomas Moore

The Summer Webs.

The summer webs that float and shine,
    The summer dews that fall,
Tho' light they be, this heart of mine
    Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
    Which lately seemed to lour;
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,
    And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above,
    With naught to wake one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love
    Were at this moment nigh,--
It seems as if life's brilliant sun
    Had stopt in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,
And rest in radiance here.

Thomas Moore

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

Bright Moon.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,
    All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
    And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!--
By all the bliss thy beam discovers,
    By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
    Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,--

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
    Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
    Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
    Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
    Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

Thomas Moore

Bring The Bright Garlands Hither.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
    Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
    Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
    Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
    Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
    Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
    Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
    Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
    Bright to the last drop flowing!

Thomas Moore

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

All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
    The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
    To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize
    Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
    That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
    In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
    That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
    The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
    But...

Thomas Moore