Thomas Sturge Moore
Biography of Thomas Sturge Moore
Thomas Sturge Moore (March 4, 1870– July 18, 1944) was an English poet, author and artist. He was born on 4 March 1870 and was educated at Dulwich College, the Croydon Art School and Lambeth Art School. He was a long-term friend and correspondent of W. B. Yeats. He was also a playwright, writing a Medea influenced by Yeats' drama and the Japanese Noh style.
Sturge Moore was a prolific poet and his subjects included, morality, art and the spirit. His first pamphlet, Two Poems, was printed privately in 1893 and his first book of verse, The Vinedresser, was published in 1899. His love for poetry lead him to become an active member of the Poetry Recital Society. His first (of 31) plays to be produced was Aphrodite against Artemis (1906), staged by the Literary Theatre Club of which he became a member in 1908. He received a civil list pension in 1920 in recognition for his contribution to literature and in 1930 he was nominated as one of seven candidates for the position of Poet Laureate. He died on 18 July 1944.
He adopted the name 'Sturge' as a way of avoiding confusion with the poet Thomas Moore.
He was the brother of the famous philosopher George Edward Moore, one of the founders of the Analytic tradition in philosophy.
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Thomas Sturge Moore Poems
O idleness, too fond of me, Begone, I know and hate thee! Nothing canst thou of pleasure see In one that so doth rate thee;
SO faint, no ear is sure it hears, So faint and far; So vast that very near appears My voice, both here and in each star
O happy soul, forget thy self! This that has haunted all the past, That conjured disappointments fast,
The Dying Swan
O SILVER-THROATED Swan Struck, struck! A golden dart Clean through thy breast has gone Home to thy heart.
The Rower's Chant
ROW till the land dip 'neath The sea from view. Row till a land peep up, A home for you.
'FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air, Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare----' 'O pick me some!'
Dear exile from the hurrying crowd, At work I muse to you aloud; Thought on my anvil softens, glows, And I forget our art has foes;
O deeper than the noontide seems when blue, Conceived as of yet finer woof than air, Where, as clouds form, folk cherished, moments rare,
Row till the land dip 'neath The sea from view. Row till a land peep up, A home for you.
A Sicilian Idyll
(First Scene) Damon I thank thee, no; Already have I drunk a bowl of wine . . . Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise?
O happy soul, forget thy self!
This that has haunted all the past,
That conjured disappointments fast,
That never could let well alone;
That, climbing to achievement's throne,
Slipped on the last step; this that wove
Dissatisfaction's clinging net,
And ran through life like squandered pelf:--
This that till now has been thy self