TuesdayJul 01, 2025
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Thomas Moore (May 28, 1779 - February 25, 1852) was an Irish poet, singer, songwriter, and entertainer, now best remembered for the lyrics of The Minstrel Boy and the The Last Rose of Summer .
Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's soberer time.
Yes, loving is a painful thrill And not to love more painful still; But oh, it is the worst of pain, To love and not be loved again.
There is nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dreams.
The world is seldom what it seems; to man, who dimly sees, realities appear as dreams, and dreams realities.
Oh, colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine played, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom, when betrayed.
Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, Out blushes all the bloom of bower, Than she unrivalled grace discloses; The sweetest rose, where all are roses.
Mary, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing; But now I mourn that ever I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving.
Life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
+Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.
Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.
All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
I reflected how soon in the cup of desire The pearl of the soul may be melted away; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay.
There 's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream.
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon.
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future,two eternities!
Ask a woman's advice, and whatever she advise, do the the reverse and you are sure to be wise.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past.
Like a young eagle who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, See their own feathers pluck'd to wing the dart Which rank corruption destines for their heart.
Faith is a gift of spirit that allows the soul to remain attached to its own unfolding. When faith is soulful, it is always planted in the soil of wonder and questioning.
Where bastard Freedom waves The fustian flag in mockery over slaves.
The many great gardens of the world, of literature and poetry, of painting and music, of religion and architecture, all make the point as clear as possible: The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don't want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don't have a soul.
The garden reconciles human art and wild nature, hard work and deep pleasure, spiritual practice and the material world. It is a magical place because it is not divided. The many divisions and polarizations that terrorize a disenchanted world find peaceful accord among mossy rock walls, rough stone paths, and trimmed bushes. Maybe a garden sometimes seems fragile, for all its earth and labor, because it achieves such an extraordinary delicate balance of nature and human life, naturalness and artificiality. It has its own liminality, its point of balance between great extremes.
T'is the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone.
From thence the beasts be brought in, killed and clean washed by the hands of their bondsmen. For they permit not their free citizens to accustom themselves to the killing of beasts, through the use whereof they think clemency, the gentlest affection of our nature, by little and little to decay and perish.
The intimacy in sex is never only physical. In a sexual relationship we may discover who we are in ways otherwise unavailable to us, and at the same time we allow our partner to see and know that individual. As we unveil our bodies, we also disclose our persons.
And music, toodear music! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.
I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of every hue; I loved it dearly while alone, But I shall love it more with your: And there the golden bees shall come, In summer time at the break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.
We may have to learn again the mystery of the garden: how its external characteristics model the heart itself, and how the soul is a garden enclosed, our own perpetual paradise where we can be refreshed and restored.
Plants that wake when others sleep. Timid jasmine buds that keep their fragrance to themselves all day, but when the sunlight dies away let the delicious secret out to every breeze that roams about.
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future: two eternities!
I knew, by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near; And I said, 'If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here.'
How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage?
Weep on! and as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the luxury of woe.
Spirituality is seeded, germinates, spouts and blossoms in the mundane. It is to be found and nurtured in the smallest of daily activities.
The minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light there is shed upon them.
We work with the stuff of the soul by means of the things of life.
When Time who steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too, The mem'ry of the past will stay, And half our joys renew.
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