Chapter 27
"'Tis Sweet to Think," by Thomas Moore. Read for LibriVox.org, by Sandra. "'Tis sweet to think that, where'er we may rove, we are sure to find something blissful and dear, and that, when we're far from the lips we love,
we've but to make love to the lips we are near. The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, but will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing it can twine with itself and make closely its own. Then, oh, what pleasure, where'er we rove, to be sure to find something still that is dear,
and to know when far from the lips we love, we've but to make love to the lips we're near. T'were a shame when flowers around us rise to make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there, And the world so rich in resplendent eyes T'were a pity to limit one's love to a pair Love's wing and the peacocks are nearly alike
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike It will tincture love's plume with a different hue Then, oh, what pleasure, where'er we rove To be sure to find something still that is dear
And to know when far from the lips we love We've but to make love to the lips we are near End of poem This recording is in the public domain
