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Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

Thomas Moore

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Thomas Moore
Born: 1779
Born: May 28
Comedy Writer
Composer
Conductor
Historian
Jurist
Lyricist
Musician
Novelist
Performing Artist
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Singer
Songwriter
Writer
Dublin city
Tom Moore
Anacreon Moore
Thomas
the younger Brown
Thomas Little
Thomas Mur
Tomas Mur
Thomas Brown
Thomas Brown the younger
Last
Thou
Roam
Eye
Climate
Bosom
Art
Sorrow
Thine
Stills
Seem
Bosoms
Seems
Shall
Exile
Home
Eyes
Glimpse
Still
Though
Ireland
Make
Lasts
Wherever
Erin

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All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
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We let a river shower its banks with a spirit that invades the people living there, and we protect that river, knowing that without its blessings the people have no source of soul.
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Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, grow pure by being purely shone upon.
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The devil...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.
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Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.
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We need people in our lives with whom we can be as open as possible. To have real conversations with people may seem like such a simple, obvious suggestion, but it involves courage and risk.
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Sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears revealing.
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Silence is not an absence of sound but rather a shifting of attention toward sounds that speak to the soul.
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A genuine odyssey is not about piling up experiences. It is a deeply felt, risky, unpredictable tour of the soul.
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With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence - o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop that, night and day, Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!
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The past, the future: - two eternities!
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I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star on life's tremulous ocean.
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Come o'er the sea, Maiden with me, Mine through the sunshine, storms and snows Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.
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The key to seeing the world's soul, and in the process wakening our own, is to get over the confusion by which we think that fact is real and imagination is illusion.
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Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.
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Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.
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Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.
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It is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic, forever, like the old man of the sea, upon his back.
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T'is the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone.
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Usually, the main problem with life conundrums is that we don't bring to them enough imagination
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