To My Mother / Thomas Moore

To My Mother

They tell us of an Indian tree
Which howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

~~
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas Moore biography
Mother on The Penny Blog.

The Last Rose of Summer / Thomas Moore

The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer
     Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
     Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
     No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
     To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
     To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
     Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
     Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
     Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
     When friendships decay,
From Love's shining circle
     The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
     And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
     This bleak world alone?

~~~
Thomas Moore (1779-1852) 1805
From Irish Melodies, 1807

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

"The Last Rose of Summer" sung by John McDermott. Courtesy Dermott Studio.

About this poem

Thomas Moore biography