This World Is All A Fleeting Show. (Air.--Stevenson.)

This world is all a fleeting show,
    For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
    There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
    As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
    There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
    From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
    There's nothing calm but Heaven!

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

Greek Air

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XVII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Evening Gun.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Prince's Day.[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.

Dreaming For Ever.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
    Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
    But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
    But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
    Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
    Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing--
    Emblem of life's short doom!
But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,
    'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
    Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

Thomas Moore

Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
    So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
    To dim a heaven so purely bright--
I sigh to think how soon that brow
    In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
    Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,
    The ruined hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
    A chilled or burning heart behind:--
While youth, that now like snow appears,
    Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears
    Can ever shine so bright again.

Thomas Moore

The Halcyon Hangs O'er Ocean.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean,
    The sea-lark skims the brine;
This bright world's all in motion,
    No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places,
    With heart all cold the while;
To look in smiling faces,
    When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven
    Around thee shine with bliss,
To thee no light is given,--
    Oh, what a doom is this!

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

Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
    What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
    By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
    Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
    Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
    Such shadows will all ...

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract III. Geneva.

Fancy and Truth--Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.--Clouds.


Even here in this region of wonders I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;
Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed!
MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised
On the wreck of the sunset--and all his array
    Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,
    As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
Then the dying at last of these splendors away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,
One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,
    O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny ...

Thomas Moore