The Surprise.

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more.--
"What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"
Because I can not love thee more
    --than 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

Dreaming For Ever.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Rhymes On The Road. Extract VII. Venice.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Cotton And Corn. A Dialogue.

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.

Thou Lovest No More.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
    Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
    Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
    The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
    'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
    I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now--alas! there's no deceiving,
    'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
    As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
    Or bring back him who loves no more.

Thomas Moore

Oh, No--Not Even When First We Loved. (Cashmerian Air.)

Oh, no--not even when first we loved,
    Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
    But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
    Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more,
    Trust me, I love thee better now.

Altho' my heart in earlier youth
    Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
    Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
    That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seemed to love thee more,
    Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

Thomas Moore

To .......

Sweet lady, look not thus again:
    Those bright, deluding smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
    Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took
    Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she smile and lisp and look,
    And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her--wildly love--
    She was her sex's best deceiver!
And oft she swore she'd never rove--
    And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile
    Of one whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile
    Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind
    On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned
    Will err again an...

Thomas Moore

Did Not.

'Twas a new feeling--something more
Than we had dared to own before.
    Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
    To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch--
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
    And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
    Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
    Though gently bid not;
Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
    And yet, who did not.

Thomas Moore

To .......

When I loved you, I can't but allow
    I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
    Hath even more luxury in it.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off,
    Some witchery seems to await you;
To love you was pleasant enough,
    And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!

Thomas Moore

Song.

Have you not seen the timid tear,
    Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not marked the flush of fear,
    Or caught the murmured sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
    Nor fixt on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
    A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,
    Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,
    One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith be o'er,
    If still my truth you'll try;
Alas, I know but one proof more--
    I'll bless your name, and die!

Thomas Moore