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Beautiful Irish Poem
Song
by Thomas Moore
the greatest Irish lyrist
born Dublin, 1779 - died 1852
Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?
To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly, true:
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more -
I'll bless your name, and die!
by Thomas Moore
the greatest Irish lyrist
born Dublin, 1779 - died 1852
Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?
To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly, true:
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more -
I'll bless your name, and die!
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Felicia on -
Frank, my dear friend! I am so thrilled to see oyu back; I so feared you had taken to travel or abandoned us for awhile, but I am enormously gratified to see you back, and very appreciative of oyur kind words--thank oyu so much. I absolutely love your poem; it is enormous in the very moost special of places. I will read it again and again in the coming days, as it has touched me very deeply and I want to savor it fully, think a little and savor some more! Welcome back! My sincerest heartfelt hope that oyu are truly feeling better these days. You have ben missed!
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Permalink Reply by Walter on -
And there I sat, day after day, in quiet repose watching the bereft pages of LI for the return of the one we call ‘The Master’. ‘Twas neither duty nor compliance that bade me watch but the anticipation of words yet unspoken. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows – mine was in the ‘not knowing’. Where is Frank?
Hi Frank . . . all this to say a big ‘Welcome Back’! You can see from the comments of your friends that your absence was lamented. And what a comeback – your poem is as usual poignant, well versed and reflective of Ireland’s youth – perhaps in a greater sense all youth. It is the age we live in – instant this and instant that. The days of yesterday are just that – passé. Whoops! Got to run – I have to Google something right now!
Continued ‘Good Health’ . . . Walter
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Permalink Reply by terry ferdinand on
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nothing to say other than it touches the soul
terry
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Permalink Reply by Felicia on
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I can't wait--I am going back on the 5th of MArch--I will have this poem in my head!
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on -
Pierre
A beautifully crafted poem! Very intense and clear.
Imagery is like an impressionist's brushwork -- loaded
with texture and very, very concise.
A mix of old and new poetic style.
Behold the poets who enhance this discussion. Souls of passion, hearts of warmth.
To all of you, I am proud to be a part of this living dialogue!!!!
Frank Daub
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on
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Lady Dianne
Such a gentlewoman who seems to love life in every aspect. Like Felicia and Lisa, you bring such a spirit to this group.
We must all keep this poetical little universe going.
Frank
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on
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Grand, just grand! Pierre -- your soul is guiding your thoughts and your poetic talents and that is what every poet waits for, prays for. Every time you've posted one of your own, the talent has grown.
Isn't it wonderful to be part of this fine family, to so love the poetic form that we are immersed in it?
We few, we happy few, we band of poets!
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Permalink Reply by Walter on
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Pierre,
‘Motherland at Clonmacnoise’
My apologies – somehow I missed seeing this poem. Having said that let me comment. What a wonderful poem! From the opening line one gets an immediate sense of the ‘historic’ past and the presence of that past in the ‘feel of the Elderly Saints.’ The imagery of the ‘soft smell of peat smoke – breath of fresh air – dwellings – fields – as the river flows’ - compounds the sense that this is indeed God’s country – Ireland! The poet is obviously at ‘home’ in body and spirit – ‘no awareness needed’. Delightfully, the reader gets to share in this experience and like the poet has an opportunity to bask for a moment in the ‘comfort of Ireland’ for Ireland is ‘home.’
Well done Pierre!
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