Come, Rest in this Bosom
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart?
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this, --
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, -- or perish there too!
Thomas Moore's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Come, Rest in this Bosom by Thomas Moore )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
Elinor Morton Wylie
(7 September 1885 – 16 December 1928)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(15 April 1958)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
- 입싸방은아메센터jh, hthrth fdghfh
- Talking Turkeys!, Benjamin Zephaniah
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Stafford's Cabin, Edwin Arlington Robinson
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Three Kings, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- Christmas Carol, Sara Teasdale