Thomas Moore

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose read more

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood;
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,
While my soul expands with glee,
read more

On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,
While my soul expands with glee,
What are kings and crowns to me?

I'm one of the undeserving poor . . . up ugen middle-class
morality all the time . . . read more

I'm one of the undeserving poor . . . up ugen middle-class
morality all the time . . . . What is middle-class morality?
Just an excuse for never giving me anything.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touch'd by the read more

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,
Soon as read more

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,
Soon as the woods on shore dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn;
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.