Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/19



I love, and he loves me again,
 * Yet dare I not tell who:

For if the nymphs should know my swain,
 * I fear they'd love him too.
 * Yet while my joy's unknown,
 * Its rosy buds are but half-blown:

What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
 * They yet may envy me:

But then if I grow jealous mad,
 * And of them pitied be,
 * 'Twould vex me worse than scorn!
 * And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.