This Life Is All Chequer'd With Pleasures and Woes — Summary

Thomas MooreContemplative

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep -- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup -- if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet; -- while idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

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Thomas Moore’s speaker looks at life as a constant chase of light and shadow, where laughter often interrupts tears, and pity is quickly nudged aside by a flash of silliness. He doesn’t want a world of perfect happiness or constant wisdom—that would be cloying. Instead, he toasts a kind of gentle sadness that’s nearly joy, and a bright, harmless foolishness that glitters for a moment and then vanishes. The mood is both playful and accepting, as though he’s made peace with the messy, unpredictable rhythm of living.

The second stanza deepens this by comparing himself to the mythic boy Hylas, who got distracted picking flowers and never filled his urn with water. The speaker admits he, too, dallied when he should have drunk deeply from the fountain of philosophy. Yet as he weaves his idle flowerets together, he believes that even a stray drop or two of wisdom fallen from that fountain is enough. It’s a shrug at lost time and a quiet celebration of what little insight idle moments can bring.

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