Why Does She So Long Delay? By Paul, The Silentiary.

Why does she so long delay?
    Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
    Watching here in solitude,
Where can she so long delay?
    Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone;
    See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
    Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
    Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear
    Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
    What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,--
    No, neither doth she fear.

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

Lines On The Death Of Sheridan.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Dying Warrior.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How To Make One's Self A Peer.

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, Like Dew In Silence Falling. By Meleager.

Still, like dew in silence falling,
    Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
    Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
        Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
    Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
    So 'tis graven on this heart,
        Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
    Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
    Why? why?

Thomas Moore

The Philosopher Aristippus[1] To A Lamp Which Had Been Given Him By Lais.

        Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.
        MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89.


"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said),
    "The faithful Lamp that, many a night,
"Beside thy Lais' lonely bed?
    "Has kept its little watch of light.

"Full often has it seen her weep,
    "And fix her eye upon its flame.
"Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,
    "Repeating her beloved's name.

"Then love the Lamp--'twill often lead
    "Thy step through learning's sacred way;
"And when those studious eyes shall read,
"At midnight, by its lonely ray,
    "Of things sublime, of nature's birth,
    "Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,
Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given,
"Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes--dearest...

Thomas Moore

The Delaying Bride.

Why so slowly do you move
To the centre of your love?
On your niceness though we wait,
Yet the hours say 'tis late:
Coyness takes us, to a measure;
But o'eracted deads the pleasure.
Go to bed, and care not when
Cheerful day shall spring again.
One brave captain did command,
By his word, the sun to stand:
One short charm, if you but say,
Will enforce the moon to stay,
Till you warn her hence, away,
T' have your blushes seen by day.

Robert Herrick

From The High Priest Of Apollo To A Virgin Of Delphi.[1]

        Cum digno digna.....
                                            SULPICIA.


"Who is the maid, with golden hair,
"With eye of fire, and foot of air,
"Whose harp around my altar swells,
"The sweetest of a thousand shells?"
'Twas thus the deity, who treads
The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds
Day from his eyelids--thus he spoke,
As through my cell his glories broke.

    Aphelia is the Delphic fair^[2]
With eyes of fire and golden hair,
Aphelia's are the airy feet.
And hers the harp divinely sweet;
For foot so light has never trod
The laurelled caverns of the god.
Nor harp so soft hath ever given
A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

    "Then tell the virgin to unfold,
"In looser pomp, her locks of gold...

Thomas Moore

The Time I've Lost In Wooing.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
    The light, that lies
    In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorned the lore she brought me,
    My only books
    Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
    Like him the Sprite,^[1]
    Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
    If once their ray
    Was turned away,
O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
    Too cold or wise
    For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No, vain, alas! the end...

Thomas Moore

The Grecian Girl's Dream Of The Blessed Islands.[1]

TO HER LOVER.


Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night
Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,
That, while I yet can vividly recall
Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all.
Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,
Descending from above, at that still hour,
And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.
Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day.
In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay,
But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill,
To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

    At once I knew their mission:--'twas to bear
My spirit upward, through the paths of air,
To that elysian r...

Thomas Moore