Thomas Moore

Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Like a tired monarch read more

Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest,
'Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;
While round his couch's golden rim
The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept--
Struggling each other's light to dim,
And catch his last smile e'er he slept.

There written all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
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There written all
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing Angel's pen,
Ere Mercy weeps them out again.

Together kneeling, night and day,
Thou, for my sake, at Allah's shrine,
And I--at any God's for read more

Together kneeling, night and day,
Thou, for my sake, at Allah's shrine,
And I--at any God's for thine.

Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
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Cheek . . .
Flushing white and mellow'd red;
Gradual tints, as when there glows
In snowy milk the bashful rose.

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.