Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
    Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
    Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
    Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
    When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
    My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
    Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
    Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

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

Go, Then--'Tis Vain. (Sicilian Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

New Creation Of Peers. Batch The First.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter I.

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.

No, Not More Welcome.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
    Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
    He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,--
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
    This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
    To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
    Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
    Of my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!--
    I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
    By such benign, blessed sounds again.

Thomas Moore

Calm Be Thy Sleep.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers!
    Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!
May every joy this bright world numbers
    Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!
Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided,
    There ever must some pang remain,
Still be thy lot with me divided,--
    Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover
    Round thy steps where'er they stray;
As, even when clouds his idol cover,
    Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.
If this be wrong, if Heaven offended
    By worship to its creature be,
Then let my vows to both be blended,
    Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.

Thomas Moore

The Young May Moon.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
    How sweet to rove
    Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
    And the best of all ways
    To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
    And I, whose star,
    More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
    Or, in watching the flight
    Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Thomas Moore

Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
        Of her he loves--
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
        That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
        In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
        To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
        To pleasure's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
        Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
        In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow

Thomas Moore

Dreaming For Ever.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
    Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
    But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
    But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
    Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
    Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing--
    Emblem of life's short doom!
But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,
    'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
    Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

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