by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Altered and modified from an old poet.
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 foreborne,
Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.
He is, if they can find him, fair
And fresh, and fragrant too;
As after rain the summer air,
And looks as lilies do,
That are this morning blown!
Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known,
Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown.
But he hath eyes so large and bright,
Which none can see, and doubt
That Love might thence his torches light
Tho' Hate had put them out!
But then to raise my fears,
His voice -- what maid so ever hears
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.
I'll tell no more! yet I love him,
And he loves me; yet so,
That never one low wish did dim
Our love's pure light, I know --
In each so free from blame,
That both of us would gain new fame,
If love's strong fears would let me tell his name!
Source:The Golden Book Of Coleridge
London: J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd.
New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.