Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. Thomas MooreTo Chloe
I
Howe’er its splendour used to thrill me;
And ev’n that cheek of roseate hue,—
To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me.
However much I’ve raved about it;
And sweetly as that lip can kiss,
I think I could exist without it.
That, sooth my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last,
To—do without you altogether.