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,
...

O SILVER-THROATED Swan
Struck, struck! A golden dart
Clean through thy breast has gone
Home to thy heart.
...

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;
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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,
...

Row till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
...

(First Scene) Damon
I thank thee, no;
Already have I drunk a bowl of wine . . .
Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise?
...