To The Fire-Fly.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky
    Are glowing with the light of spring,
We see thee not, thou humble fly!
    Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue,
    And sunny lights no longer play,
Oh then we see and bless thee too
    For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me
    The lights that now my life illume,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,
    To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

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

To Lady Holland. On Napoleon's Legacy Op A Snuff-Box.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Spring And Autumn.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Stanzas From The Banks Of The Shannon.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Church Extension. To The Editor Of The Morning Chronicle.

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.

Still Thou Fliest.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
    Lovely phantom,--all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
    Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
    Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,--
    As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
    Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
    Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
    The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendor hiding.--
    Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

Thomas Moore

To The Flying-Fish.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gayly to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were formed to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent
Within this world's gross element,
But takes the wing that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy c...

Thomas Moore

Fly Not Yet.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
    And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
    Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,--
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain
    To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that played
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
    To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks,
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning...

Thomas Moore

Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
    What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
    By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
    Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
    Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
    Such shadows will all ...

Thomas Moore

The Language Of Flowers.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,
    To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
    The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
    Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
    The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they
    But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
    What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
    A towering lily broken,--
Oh these may paint a grief
    No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
    The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
    My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
    Than gems the richest, rarest,--
From Truth's i...

Thomas Moore

The Summer Webs.

The summer webs that float and shine,
    The summer dews that fall,
Tho' light they be, this heart of mine
    Is lighter still than all.
It tells me every cloud is past
    Which lately seemed to lour;
That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,
    And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above,
    With naught to wake one sigh,
Except the wish that all we love
    Were at this moment nigh,--
It seems as if life's brilliant sun
    Had stopt in full career,
To make this hour its brightest one,
And rest in radiance here.

Thomas Moore