To Miss ....... On Her Asking The Author Why She Had Sleepless Nights.

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,
    And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,
    And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
    That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep
    When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say--her angel breast
    Has never throbbed with guilty sting;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest
    Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say--her cheeks that flush,
    Like vernal roses in the sun,
Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,
    Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!
    Does slumber from her eyelids rove?
What is her heart's impassioned care?
    Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

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

New Hospital For Sick Literati.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Parallel.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

If" And "Perhaps."

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.

The Snow Spirit.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
    An island of lovelier charms;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
    Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,
    And their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
    And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
    That shines through thy lips when they part,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
    As a murmur of thine on the heart.
Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,
    As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
    But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale,
    And bright...

Thomas Moore

To The Invisible Girl.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye
As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.
But I will not believe them--no, Science, to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:
Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;
How rays are confused, or how particles fly
Through the medium refined of a glance or a ...

Thomas Moore

Dreams. To ... ....

In slumber, I prithee how is it
    That souls are oft taking the air,
And paying each other a visit,
    While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,
    Your soul took a fancy to roam,
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,
    Come ask, whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,
    And they talked and they laughed the time through;
For, when souls come together at night,
    There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And your little Soul, heaven bless her!
    Had much to complain and to say,
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her
    By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal
    "For a peep now and then to her eye,
"Or, to quiet the fever...

Thomas Moore

Slumber, Oh Slumber.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
    Thus sung I to a maiden,
        Who slept one summer's day,
    And, like a flower overladen
        With too much sunshine, lay.
            Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
    Thus sing I, while, awaking,
        She murmurs words that seem
    As if her lips were taking
        Farewell of some sweet dream.
            Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

Thomas Moore

When Night Brings The Hour.

When night brings the hour
    Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
    A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
    So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
    To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
    Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
    Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
    Name but his name,
And his best kiss
    For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
    He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
    Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
    As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
    Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
    Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
    Were turning to fire.
Guess wh...

Thomas Moore

To Mrs. Henry Tighe, On Reading Her "Psyche."

Tell me the witching tale again,
    For never has my heart or ear
Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,
    So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame,
    When the high heaven itself was thine;
When piety confest the flame,
    And even thy errors were divine;

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,
    A glory round thy temple spread?
Did ever lip's ambrosial air
    Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?

One maid there was, who round her lyre
    The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;--
But all her sighs were sighs of fire,
    The myrtle withered as she breathed.

Oh! you that love's celestial dream,
    In all its purity, would know,
Let not the senses' ardent beam
    Too strongly through the visio...

Thomas Moore