Thomas Moore

May 28, 1780 - Feb 26, 1852


Though 'Tis All But A Dream

by Thomas Moore

Though 'tis all but a dream at the best,
And still when happiest soonest o'er,
Yet, even in a dream to be blest
Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
The bosom that opes with earliest hopes
The soonest finds those hopes untrue,
As flowers that first in spring-time burst,
The earliest wither too!

By friendship we oft are deceived,
And find the love we clung to past;
Yet friendship will still be believed
And love trusted on to the last.
The web in the leaves the spider weaves
Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men;
Though often she sees it broke by the breeze,
She spins the bright tissue again.


The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.
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