Freedom-Fighters Forum

Thomas Moore, the famous nineteenth century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door not by his beautiful bride, but by someone who gave him a message that his wife was upstairs and had asked that he not come up. Then the poet learned the terrible truth. His wife had contracted smallpox during his absence and the disease had left her once flawless and beautiful face scarred and pocked with the disease. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again.

Thomas Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room, but the room was dark and she made no sound. As he went to turn on the lamp she cried out, “No, don’t light the lamps. Please go, this is the greatest gift I can give you now.” He left the room and went downstairs to his study and sat up all night prayerfully thinking and composing not a poem, as he had before, but his first song. He not only wrote the words but he wrote the music.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he returned to his wife’s room and called out, “Are you awake?” She answered, “I am, but do not come in.” He sang to his wife that song that we hear today on occasions:

Thomas Moore, the famous nineteenth century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door not by his beautiful bride, but by someone who gave him a message that his wife was upstairs and had asked that he not come up. Then the poet learned the terrible truth. His wife had contracted smallpox during his absence and the disease had left her once flawless and beautiful face scarred and pocked with the disease. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again.

Thomas Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room, but the room was dark and she made no sound. As he went to turn on the lamp she cried out, “No, don’t light the lamps. Please go, this is the greatest gift I can give you now.” He left the room and went downstairs to his study and sat up all night prayerfully thinking and composing not a poem, as he had before, but his first song. He not only wrote the words but he wrote the music.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he returned to his wife’s room and called out, “Are you awake?” She answered, “I am, but do not come in.” He sang to his wife that song that we hear today on occasions:
Thomas Moore, the famous nineteenth century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door not by his beautiful bride, but by someone who gave him a message that his wife was upstairs and had asked that he not come up. Then the poet learned the terrible truth. His wife had contracted smallpox during his absence and the disease had left her once flawless and beautiful face scarred and pocked with the disease. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again.

Thomas Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room, but the room was dark and she made no sound. As he went to turn on the lamp she cried out, “No, don’t light the lamps. Please go, this is the greatest gift I can give you now.” He left the room and went downstairs to his study and sat up all night prayerfully thinking and composing not a poem, as he had before, but his first song. He not only wrote the words but he wrote the music.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he returned to his wife’s room and called out, “Are you awake?” She answered, “I am, but do not come in.” He sang to his wife that song that we hear today on occasions:

Believe me, if all these endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and flee in my arms,
Like fairy gifts, fading away,
Thou would’st still be adored
As this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will;
And around the dear ruin,
Each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still!

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks un-profaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.

And then he heard a movement from the corner of the room where his wife lay in her loneliness. She rose from her bed, crossed the room, and they fell into each other’s arms.