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letra de love (4a) - samuel taylor coleridge

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all thoughts, all p-ssions, 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 arm{‘e}d man
the statue of the arm{‘e}d 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 h–ry

she listened 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 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 faltering 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—
then 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

- samuel taylor coleridge

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