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

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

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VIII. From Mr. Bob Fudge To Richard ----, Esq.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Stanzas.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Sweet Innisfallen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Dear Harp Of My Country.

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 .......

'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 .......

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

Here, Take My Heart.
Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,
I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder--
For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart'...
Thomas Moore

To A Lady, With Some Manuscript Poems, On Leaving The Country.
When, casting many a look behind,
I leave the friends I cherish here--
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear--

Haply the little simple page,
Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt
With pity, never melt with love;
And such will frown at all I've felt,
And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,
Which rather loves to praise than blame,
Should in my page an interest find.
And linger kindl...
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 Miss Moore. From Norfolk, In Virginia, November, 1803.
In days, my Kate, when life was new,
When, lulled with innocence and you,
I heard, in home's beloved shade,
The din the world at distance made;
When, every night my weary head
Sunk on its own unthorned bed,
And, mild as evening's matron hour,
Looks on the faintly shutting flower,
A mother saw our eyelids close,
And blest them into pure repose;
Then, haply if a week, a day,
I lingered from that home away,
How long the little absence seemed!
How bright the look of welcome beamed,
As mute you heard, with eager smile,
My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea
Bolls wide between that home and me;
The moon may thrice be born and die,
Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.
Which used so oft, so quick to come,
S...
Thomas Moore