Tis The Last Rose Of Summer.

'Tis the last rose of summer
    Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
    Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
    No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
    Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
    To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping.
    Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
    Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
    Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
    When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
    The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
    And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
    This bleak world alone?

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

Religion And Trade.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Vision. By The Author Of "Christabel."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Poco-Curante Society.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudges In England. Letter X. From The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, To The Rev. ----.

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.

Poor Broken Flower.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
    Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath--
        In vain the sunbeams seek
        To warm that faded cheek;
The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;
    Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,--
    Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
        In vain the smiles of all
        Like sunbeams round her fall:
The only smile that could from death awaken her,
    That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

Thomas Moore

Her Last Words, At Parting.

Her last words, at parting, how can I forget?
    Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay;
Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet,
    When its sounds from the ear have long melted away.
Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain;
    Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,--
"Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,
    "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie,
    Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste,
He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply,
    Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste.
So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain,
    These words shall my well in the wilderness be,--
"Remember, in a...

Thomas Moore

Here's The Bower.

Here's the bower she loved so much,
    And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch--
    Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
    Where's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
    Where's the lip to breathe them?
                Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
    Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
    Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
    Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
    Nor Pity wept a dearer!
                Here's the bower, etc.

Thomas Moore

To .......

With all my soul, then, let us part,
    Since both are anxious to be free;
And I will sand you home your heart,
    If you will send mine back to me.

We've had some happy hours together,
    But joy must often change its wing;
And spring would be but gloomy weather,
    If we had nothing else but spring.

'Tis not that I expect to find
    A more devoted, fond and true one,
With rosier cheek or sweeter mind--
    Enough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love,
    Where we have loitered long in bliss;
And you may down that pathway rove,
    While I shall take my way through this.

Thomas Moore

Ill Omens.




When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
    And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
    The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
    Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
    The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.
    Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,^[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.
    Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
    She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise:
"Ah! such," said the girl...

Thomas Moore

Yes, Yes, When The Bloom.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er,
    He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;
And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore,
The charms that remain will be bright as before,
    And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.
Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay,
    That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:
Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away,
While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,
    Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

Thomas Moore