Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          IF thou’lt be mine, the treasures of air,

                Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;

          Whatever in Fancy’s eye looks fair,

                Or in Hope’s sweet music sounds most sweet,

                        Shall be ours — if thou wilt be mine, love!

          Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,

                A voice divine shall talk in each stream;

          The stars shall look like world of love,

                And this earth be all one beautiful dream

                        In our eyes — if thou wilt be mine, love!

          And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,

                Like streams that come from heaven-ward hills,

          Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie

                To be bathed by those eternal rills,

                        Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

          All this and more the Spirit of Love

                Can breathe o’er them who feel his spells;

          That heaven, which forms his home above,

                He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,

                      As thou’lt own, — if thou wilt be mine, love!