Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/151

 Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; Here too the love-lorn Man who, sick in soul And of this busy human heart aweary, Worships the spirit of unconscious life In tree or wild-flower.—Gentle Lunatic! If so he might not wholly cease to be, He would far rather not be that, he is; But would be something, that he knows not of, In winds or waters, or among the rocks!


 * But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!

No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades! And you, ye ! you that make at morn The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! You, O ye wingless ! that creep between The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed— Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless Damp, Rh