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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!

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
Night
Memory
Wore
Thought
Deep
Grieving
Stills
Cold
Sympathy
Still
Grew
Falls
Heart
Memories
Drop
Ceaseless
Thinking
Pain
Till
Condolences
Like
Fall
Absence
Wept
Away
Thee
Woe

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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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Most, if not all, problems brought to therapists are issues of love. It makes sense that the cure is also love.
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The past, the future: - two eternities!
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Came but for friendship, and took away love.
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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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The problem in narcissism is not the high ideals and ambitions, it's the difficulty one encounters when trying to give them body.
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This is the right time, and this is the right thing.
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It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.
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In our prayer and meditation we hope for fulfilling ordinary life.
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Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.
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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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Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
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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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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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A genuine odyssey is not about piling up experiences. It is a deeply felt, risky, unpredictable tour of the soul.
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Every season hath its pleasure Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasuries Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.
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Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.
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You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
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The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.
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Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her hand she bore.
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