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.
��A L
��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.
�� �
