Still, Like Dew In Silence Falling. By Meleager.

Still, like dew in silence falling,
    Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
    Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
        Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
    Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
    So 'tis graven on this heart,
        Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
    Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
    Why? why?

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

Impromptu. Upon Being Obliged To Leave A Pleasant Party, From The Want Of A Pair Of Breeches To Dress For Dinner In.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Julia.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Why Does She So Long Delay? By Paul, The Silentiary.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Up, Sailor Boy, 'Tis Day.

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 Twilight Dews.

When twilight dews are falling soft
    Upon the rosy sea, love,
I watch the star, whose beam so oft
    Has lighted me to thee, love.
And thou too, on that orb so dear,
    Dost often gaze at even,
And think, tho' lost for ever here,
    Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread,
    There's not a flower I see, love,
But brings to mind some hope that's fled,
    Some joy that's gone with thee, Love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
    When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here
    May turn to smiles in heaven.

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

Still Thou Fliest.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
    Lovely phantom,--all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
    Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
    Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,--
    As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
    Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
    Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
    The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendor hiding.--
    Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

Thomas Moore

At The Mid Hour Of Night

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear
When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,^[1]
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore

She Sung Of Love.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
    The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
    The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
    And played around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
    If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,
    Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turned,
    The minstrel's form seemed fading too.
As if her light and heaven's were one,
    The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
    As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought
    That he and all he loved must part?
Filled with this fear, I flew and c...

Thomas Moore

Oft, In The Stilly Night. (Scotch Air.)

Oft in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me;
        The smiles, the tears,
        Of boyhood's years,
    The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
    The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
    Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
    Of other days around me.

When I remember all
    The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
    Like leaves in wintry weather;
        I feel like one,
        Who treads alone,
    Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
    And all but he departed!
Thu...

Thomas Moore