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

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

They May Rail At This Life.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

New-Fashioned Echoes.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Let Erin Remember The Days Of Old.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Evening Gun.

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.

To .......

Remember him thou leavest behind,
    Whose heart is warmly bound to thee,
Close as the tenderest links can bind
    A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,
    Though many seemed my soul to snare;
'Twas passion when I thought I loved,
    'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme,
    Beguiled me only while she warmed;
Twas young desire that fed the dream,
    And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been
    If I had still in freedom roved,
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,
    For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel
    Had never to this heart been known;
But then, the joys that lovers steal,
    Should they...

Thomas Moore

To .... ....
And hast thou marked the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid.
Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget
The bright looks that before me shine;
For never throbbed a bosom yet
Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,
And blushing to have felt so blest,
Thou dost but lift thy languid lid
Again to close it on my breast;--

Yes,--these are minutes all thine own,
Thine own to give, and mine to feel;
Yet even in them, my heart has known
The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,
When he who first thy soul possest,
Like me awaked its witching powers,
Like me was...
Thomas Moore

To .......
'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,
While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow
One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;
Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,--
I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,
Doom me not thus so soon to fall
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,--
But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold
As ever yet allured and swayed,
And couldst, without a sigh, behold
The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,--could I think that, truly fond,
That eye but once would smile on me,
Even as thou art, how far beyond
...
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

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

Woman.
Away, away--you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,--
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away--your smile's a curse--
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,
If e'er I love such things again.
Thomas Moore