Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/702

 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

��$64 Love

thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

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��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, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Gencvieve'

She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listen J d to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope* my joy' my Gencvieve' 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.

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