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Love Analysis

Author: Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Type: Poetry Views: 817

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All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I

Live o'er again that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve ;

And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She leant against the arméd man,

The statue of the arméd knight ;

She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,

My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !

She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story--

An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace ;

For well she know, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand ;

And that for ten long years he wooed

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined : and ah !

The deep, the low, the pleading tone

With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace ;

And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face !

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,

And that he crossed the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night ;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,

And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,--

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright ;

And that he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight !

And that unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land !

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ;

And how she tended him in vain--

And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain ;--

And that she nursed him in a cave ;

And how his madness went away,

When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay ;--

His dying words--but when I reached

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faultering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity !

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ;

The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve ;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherished long !

She wept with pity and delight,

She blushed with love, and virgin-shame ;

And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside,

As conscious of my look she stepped--

The suddenly, with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,

She pressed me with a meek embrace ;

And bending back her head, looked up,

And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,

And partly 'twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,

And told her love with virgin pride ;

And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.


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