- Humility, that low, sweet root
- From which all heavenly virtues shoot.
THOMAS MOORE, The Loves of the Angels
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
THOMAS MOORE, "Come Ye Disconsolate"
Desires are central to the soul's unfolding and should not be dismissed before giving them careful attention.
- Every season hath its pleasures;
- Spring may boast her flowery prime,
- Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
- Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.
THOMAS MOORE, "Spring and Autumn"
So shall they build me altars in their zeal,
Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel:
Where faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell,
Written in blood--and Bigotry may swell
The sail he spreads for Heav'n with blasts from hell!
THOMAS MOORE, Lalla Rookh
One sole desire, one passion now remains
To keep life's fever still within his veins,
Vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
O'er him and all he lov'd that ruinous blast.
THOMAS MOORE, Lalla Rookh
But the trail of the serpent is over them all.
THOMAS MOORE, Lalla Rookh
And see--the Sun himself!--on wings
Of glory up the East he springs.
Angel of Light! who from the time
Those heavens began their march sublime,
Hath first of all the starry choir
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!
THOMAS MOORE, Lalla Rookh
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.
THOMAS MOORE, "'Tis the Last Rose of Summer"
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, the soul was lost.
