Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 168

BOOK FOURTH
168 LOVE

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 ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Has blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd 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 play'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew 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 woo'd
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 listen'd 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 cross'd 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 look'd 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 leap'd amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept, and clasp'd 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 reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd 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 cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and virgin shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stept
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd 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 calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. COLERIDGE.

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE 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 what is mount I lay Beside what is ruin'd tower. what is moonshine stealing o'er what is scene Has blended with what is lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against what is armed man, what is statue of what is armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid what is lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing what is songs that make her grieve. I play'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 168 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 168 what time is it where is p align="justify" 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 what is mount I lay Beside what is ruin'd tower. what is moonshine stealing o'er what is scene Has blended with what is lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against what is armed man, what is statue of what is armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid what is lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing what is songs that make her grieve. I play'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of what is Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo'd what is Lady of what is Land. I told her how he pined; and ah! what is deep, what is low, what is pleading tone With which I sang another's what time is it Interpreted my own. She listen'd 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 what is cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from what is savage den, And sometimes from what is darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade There came and look'd him in what is face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight! And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than what time is it what is Lady of what is Land; And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees And how she tended him in vain; And ever strove to expiate what is scorn that crazed his brain; And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away, When on what is yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay; -His dying words-but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all what is ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb'd her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; what is music and what is doleful tale, what is rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with what time is it and natural shame; And, like what is murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved-she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stept Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd 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, what is swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her what time is it with natural pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. COLERIDGE. where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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