To Cara, On The Dawning Of A New Year's Day.

When midnight came to close the year,
    We sighed to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us--hours as dear
    As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments,--every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh
    Which came a new year's light to shed,
That smile we caught from eye to eye
    Told us, those moments were not fled:
Oh, no,--we felt, some future sun
Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide;
And still thus may the passing sigh
    We give to hours, that vanish o'er us,
Be followed by the smiling eye,
    That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!

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

Anacreontic To A Plumassier.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Correspondence Between A Lady And Gentleman, Upon The Advantage Of (What Is Called) "Having Law[1] On One's Side."

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXX.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Let Joy Alone Be Remembered Now.

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 Cara, After An Interval Of Absence.

Concealed within the shady wood
    A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
    The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise,
    The mother roams, astray and weeping;
Far from the weak appealing cries
    Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,
    And gentler blows the night wind's breath;
Yet no--'tis gone--the storms are keen,
    The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded,
    His little eyes lie cold and still;--
And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded,
    Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,
    When, fearful even thy hand to touch,
I mutely asked those eyes to tell

Thomas Moore

To .... ....

The world has just begun to steal
    Each hope that led me lightly on;
I felt not, as I used to feel,
    And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,
    No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No circling arms to draw me near--
    'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye,
    Oh! something seemed to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
    And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost
    Your kindling cheek, you lighted home
Some feeling which my heart had lost
    And peace which far had learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,
    Hope looked so new and Love so kind.
That, though I mourn, I yet forgive
    The ruin the...

Thomas Moore

And Doth Not A Meeting Like This.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
    For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
    As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
    The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
    We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
    In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
    Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
    When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
    The warmth of...

Thomas Moore

To-Day, Dearest! Is Ours.

To-day, dearest! is ours;
    Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or lowers
    Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,
    To think of the thorns of Sorrow
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
    May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long
    Let the sweet moments fly over?
Tho' now, blooming and young
    Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
    Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
    Or I less in love to-morrow.

Thomas Moore

One Dear Smile.

Couldst thou look as dear as when
    First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed thee then,
    Oh, how blissful life would be!
Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
    Joys that lie in slumber cold--
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
    One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now,
    But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow--
Never yet did Heaven allow
    Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me--
    Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
    One dear smile like those of old

Thomas Moore

I Saw From The Beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
    A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
    The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
    So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,
    And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
    The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;--
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
    Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
    When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul, like ...

Thomas Moore