Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/191

139 She lean'd against the Armed Man,

The Statue of the Armed Knight:

She stood and listen'd to my Harp

Amid the ling'ring 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 fitted well

The 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.