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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 Frank Daub on -
So good to hear from you, North Man. My fellow literary traveler.
The poem is intended to say nothing more than "We are meant to be called to each other as friends, so come inside. Don't stand without because you fear that you won't be accepted."
I have no fear whatsoever about being part of our Poetry Forum, and my thought is always proven true when I enter the doorway of the home that Lisa made for all of us.
Dia Dhuit!
Frank
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Permalink Reply by Felicia on -
Thanks so much for sharing. This is the crossroads to me, whereby we all consult our conscience and decide if we are up totask. Breathtaking imagery and eloquently stated.
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Permalink Reply by Colleen Chandler on -
Lisa, I just found this poem. It is beautiful. I guess I'm a hopeless romantic; but i just love poems like this.
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on
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Ah, my Irish-French friend. Comment allez-vous?
I treasure your messages and our electronic friendship. As my Irish great grandmother used to say (didn't really understand her until my grandfather translated) -- "It's a wonderment to have friends, and a miracle to keep them."
Thank you for the kind words about the poem. It was sort of bubbling and splashing inside. Visiting the Poetry Forum does that for me. It's like being part of an Irish Literary University, right?
And to you I wish the comfort of home; you bring it to so many on this LI website.
Une seule langue n'est jaime suffisante --
Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin.
Phransais
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on
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Colleen
First, I hope that I am not being vain in assuming that you were refering to the poem that I wrote yesterday for all of my LI friends. Thank you for such a grand compliment.
Nothing pleases a poet, at least me, more than the ability of a reader to find the simplicity of the words and the message. There are too few romantics left in the world -- a terrible thing. There are too few "chasers of beauty" -- even more terrible. The Irish -- you, an Irish girl, are part of the legacy of protecting the romantic and the beautiful.
Is maith an scathan suil charad. (A friend's eye is a good mirror.)
Frank Daub
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Permalink Reply by Lisa on -
I am a hopeless romantic as well. Good to see that there are still a few left. :-) I love poetry. I have since I was young and this particular piece was heartfelt to me. I love poems like this too. I am happy that everyone is enjoying this forum. :-)
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on
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Well, now the temptation to do more has been hightened by such remarks. I wrote the following yesterday, as well. And I promise to be prudent before posting any more original work. Seldom, since my undergarduate days, have I been tempted to show my work. But all of ye are enouragers and enablers. So:
Why the Irish Sing and Dance
By Frank Daub
2008
Which the merrier – a speech or song?
One moves men to freedom
The other moves the soul along.
If they could, the Irish would
Transport their freedom to all the world.
From Parnell’s fire and flame
To Pearce’s sacramental offerings seldom heard.
Yet it is their music, the dreamer’s lively feet at dance,
That makes them known best,
And poems set to music that brings the good unrest.
Then why their gift of blarney?
Why their speeches set to life?
They’ve made their songs their army,
Sent to combat tears and strife.
The Irish are not selfish, and radiate from sea to sea,
The message that the music makes
Every freedom fighter
Free.
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Permalink Reply by Walter on -
Frank,
Is not poetry the true voice of the inner soul? And who can separate the dancer from the dance? I think we are being treated to the creative side of you – the dancer has become the dance. . . Free at last!
As you say ‘The Irish are not selfish’. May this be your impetus for giving us more original work! Not to mention the joy that we derive as observers – both casual and committed. This is indeed great stuff.
Walter . . .
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Permalink Reply by Miss O Connor on -
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Permalink Reply by JoanMarie on -
And sometimes, the beautiful Irish words are put to music. This is one of my favorite song lyrics.
Buachaill ón Éirne mé's bhréagfainn cailín deas óg
Ní fhiarfainn bó spré léi, táimse féin saibhir go leor
'S liom Corcaigh dá mhéad é, is dhá thaobh a' ghleanna, 's Tír Eoghain
'S mura n-aithraigh mé béasa's mé an t-aidhir ar chontae Mhuigheo
Rachfaidh mé amárach ag déanamh leanna fán choill
Gan coite, gan bád, gan gráinín breac ar bith liom
Ach duilliúr na gcraobh mar éadaigh leaba ós mo chionn
's óró sheacht m'anam déag thú, 's tú ag féachaint orm anall
Buachailleacht bó, mo leo, nár chleacht mise riamh
Ach ag imirt 's ag ól le h-ógmhná deasa ón sliabh
Má chaill mé mo stór, ní móide gur chaill mé mo chiall
Is ní mó liom do phóg ná an bhróg atáim ag caitheamh le bliain
A chúisle 's a stór, ná pós an seanduine liath
Ach pós an fear óg, mo leo, mura maire sé ach bliain
Nó beidh tú go fóill gan uadh nó mac ós do chionn
A shílfeadh aon deor ort tráthnóna nó ar maidin go trom
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