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
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O happy soul, forget thy self!
This that has haunted all the past,
That conjured disappointments fast,
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O SILVER-THROATED Swan
Struck, struck! A golden dart
Clean through thy breast has gone
Home to thy heart.
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ROW till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
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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!'
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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;
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O deeper than the noontide seems when blue,
Conceived as of yet finer woof than air,
Where, as clouds form, folk cherished, moments rare,
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(First Scene) Damon
I thank thee, no;
Already have I drunk a bowl of wine . . .
Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise?
...