Variety.

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
    Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
    He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace,
    Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
    The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!
    Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,--but the nymph I love
    I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms
    Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;--
No, let me ever seek those arms.
    There still I'll find variety.

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

Still Thou Fliest.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Awake, Arise, Thy Light Is Come. (Air.--Stevenson.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XVIII.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

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.

Tis Sweet To Think.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
    We are sure to find something blissful and dear.
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,
    Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
    It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
    To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
    We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
    To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
    'Twere a pity t...

Thomas Moore

This Life Is All Checkered With Pleasures And Woes

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,
    That chase one another like waves of the deep,--
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
    Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
    That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.
    The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy,
    With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
    And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
    Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
    And neglected his t...

Thomas Moore

Fancy.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,
That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands within her own bright round
    A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
    A single charm, that's not from Nature won,--
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
    A single tint unborrowed from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o'er the level lake
    One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XI. Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
    They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
    When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,
    Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
    Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
    Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
    The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
    With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into...

Thomas Moore

We May Roam Through This World.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast,
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings and be off to the west;
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own green isle,
For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery placed within call;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.

Thomas Moore

To The Lady Charlotte Rawdon.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.


Not many months have now been dreamed away
Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray
Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores,
Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours,
And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze,
Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;--
Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves,
Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,
And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief,
Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.
There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung
My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung
On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.
That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,
As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.
Such breath of passion and such soul of song.
Yes,--...

Thomas Moore