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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 Walter on -
Pierre,
‘Sun of Donegal ‘. . .
Given that your first language is French one has to be continually impressed by your contributions to the Poetry Forum. ‘Sun of Donegal’ following quickly on the heels of ‘Motherland at Clonmacnoise’ bears testament to this assertion. Your poetry colleagues are indeed thankful for the dedication of ‘Sun of Donegal’ and I for one ‘never cease to yearn’ for the ‘pulse – of the Irish ground.’ You certainly have a talent for making us feel the sense of Ireland in the presence of everyday events. Oh to be . . .
‘Soon in the morning - As I stroll quietly beside a soft bog - And a summer meadow - Unworried.’
Do I get the feeling that there is a Trilogy in the making?
Walter . . .
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Permalink Reply by kubana on -
Well, I was gone for a few weeks and suddenly everyone started posting again. The poems I have been reading as I caught up from page 15 are all wonderful, and as I read them I thought about what poetry really is. Many times, as I read the poetry in this forum or elsewhere, I have two other websites pulled up at the same time and am so busy talking to my friends that I don't always take the time to enjoy the poems. Poetry is meant to offer escape from the rush of everyday life, it is the quiet moment we take to rest our weary mind. Also, a good poem is one that comes from the heart. Last year, when I was required to write five pages a week in a journal for English class, all my best pieces were poems. In fact, I couldn't write much else. I noticed that as my cat and my dog were diagnosed with cancer and slowly progressed to the point where we had to put them down, the poems reflected the dread, sorrow, and tears I was experiencing. The closer their Third Days came, the more my writing reflected my love for them. A good poem is written about what speaks to the heart, what is in the poet's heart. As the day came this year that marked the passing of a year since my dog, Bailey, passed away, I wrote the following poem.
Never Enough Time
One year- plenty of time.
They say it's 525,600 minutes.
That's enough time to learn,
live, love, grow, laugh-
Enough time to
cry,hurt,weep,mourn,frown,or...
DIE.
but it's never enough time to heal.
I still cry.
That night, so vivid-
Cheeze pizza and pizza bones,
pizza bones and Milk Bones,
Milk Bones and bone-thin.
He wouldn't eat.
We offered him his favorite foods-
he couldn't eat.
Why couldn't he eat?
Why did the cancer take over?
Why him?
A bare leg.
A long scar.
An open wound.
No, Bailey-boy, don't lick it,
it'll only get worse.
a large tumor-
more go unseen.
Islept downstairs.
I layed on my comforter,
then that got dirty so i brought down my sleeping bag.
he slept under the coffee table.
I spent all night
talking to Bailey,
my dog,
my brother,
saying what hadn't been said.
It's been 525,600 minutes,
and still I cry.
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Permalink Reply by Walter on
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To all the lovers of dogs that have had a ‘Bailey’ in their lives this poem speaks to the heart. Mine was ‘Chinta’ and ‘still I cry.’ We who talk to our dogs are a unique breed. ‘Man’ has no greater friend than a dog. Thanks Kubana for a wonderful, heartfelt, poignant poem. Bailey had a wonderful friend!
Walter . . .
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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on -
Bailey will never be gone. He waits for you in Heaven, well and perfect and as energized by unconditional love as he was while here.
Kubana, for those who say that dogs do not have souls, I say -- never try to limit the love of Love itself -- God -- for what pleases His children pleases Him and it is not part of God's theology that He can't put our canine friends in Heaven.
HEAVEN'S DOGGY-DOOR
My best friend closed his eyes last
night, As his head was in my hand.
The Doctors said he was in pain,
And it was hard for him to stand.
The thoughts that scurried through
my head, As I cradled him in my arms.
Were of his younger, puppy years,
And OH...his many charms.
Today, there was no gentle nudge
With an intense "I love you gaze",
Only a heart thats filled with tears
Remembering our joy filled days.
But an Angel just appeared to me,
And he said, "You should cry no more,
GOD also loves our canine friends,
HE's installed a 'doggy-door"!
Jan Greene-1995
Regards
Frank in St. Louis
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Permalink Reply by kubana on
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i can not thank y'all enough for your responses to my poem for bailey. he is indeed with me, probably jealous of our newest dog, tilly, who's getting all of daddy's attention!
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Permalink Reply by Walter on
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'Dearest Katty & BELONGING'
Pierre,
You are becoming prolific in your poetry writing. Something deep in your Irish heart is stirring. Lucky are we the benefactors of such heartfelt expression. The Poetry Forum continues to benefit from each verse you add. ‘Tis ‘great stuff' my good friend.
Walter . . .
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Permalink Reply by kubana on
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pierre,
my friend David wrote this poem yesterday, and it reminded me of "Dearest Katty."
As I walk into this desperate night,
I see nothing but the eternal light;
For it is her that I try to walk towards,
But never can make it.
I've always wondered what it would be like,
To hold her hand, or kiss her lightly,
Making her smile forever there,
And all the sadness disappear.
Whether it be bad or good,
I can't help but think this way;
Am I crazy, am I mad,
Or is this just that kind of day?
I guess there is no answer,
No reasoning behind how I feel,
But what I do know, and shall forever know,
Is how just talking to her can impact me so.
Even if I see her some,
But only times few and far between,
I still can't help but talk to her,
For her voice, that song, sings to me eternally in my dreams.
-David C. Stautberg
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Permalink Reply by kubana on
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Such a beautiful poem! It reminds me of the love a father has for his daughter. Being Daddy's girls, my friends and I love to share songs and poems like this! Thank you for sharing!
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Permalink Reply by Jeremiah Fay on
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You guys are great! Anyone who doesn't read the back and forth and the sharing in between have only themselves to blame. I was going to do my taxes this weekend but this came up and once again I have to read this journal from Genesis to pause. I can't thank you all enough for this enlightenment and the many enlightenment moments to come. God never said what the acute observer's inherit who are the poets and those who analyze them-- I think they get the balance of the universe that the meek do not get. God bless you all in these tough times.
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