Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/142

 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 chuse 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.