Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          OH, could we do with this world of ours

          As thou dost with thy garden bowers,

          Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

          What a heaven on earth we’d make it!

          So bright a dwelling should be our own,

          So warranted free from sigh or frown,

          That angels soon would be coming down,

                    By the week or month to take it.

          Like those gay flies that wing through air,

          And in themselves a lustre bear,

          A stock of light, still ready there,

                    Whenver they wish to use it;

          So in this world I’d make for thee,

          Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,

          And the flash of wit or poesy

                    Break forth whenever we choose it.

          While every joy that glads our sphere

          Hath still some shadow hovering near,

          In this new world of ours, my dear,

                    Such shadows will all be omitted; —

          Unless they’re like that graceful one,

          Which when thou’rt dancing in the sun,

          Still near thee, leaves a charm upon

                    Each spot where it hath flitted!