 Love by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Sang for LibriVox.org by J. C. Guan Montreal, February 2008 All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All are but ministers of love And feed his sacred flame Often my waking dreams do I Live or again that happy hour With midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine's dealing over this scene Has blended with the lights of Eve And she was there my hope, my joy My own dear Guinevieve She leaned against the armid's men The statue of the armid's knight She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light Few sorrows had she ever owned My hope, my joy, my Guinevieve She loves me best whenever I sing The songs that make her grieve I played a soft and all-full air I sang an old and moving story An old rude song that suited well That ruined wild and hoary She listened with a fleeting blush With damned cast-eyes and modest grays For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face I told her of the nights that wore Upon his shielded burning brands And that for ten long years He would the lady of the land I told her how he pined And of the teeth to load the bleeding tone With which I sang another sluv Interpreted my own She listened with a fleeting blush With damned cast-eyes and modest grays And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely night And that he crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade There came and looked him in the face He looked so beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a faint This miserable night And that's all knowing what he did He linked him in a murderous band And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain The scorn that crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When under yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words, but when I reached The tender strain of all the ditty My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my garless Guinevere The music and the doleful tale The rich and barmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope An undistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued Subdued and cherished long She wept with pity and delight She bled with love and virgin shame Like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved she stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly with timorous eyes She fled to me in wet She half-enclosed me with her arm She pressed me with a meek embrace And bending back her head looked up And gazed upon my face It was partly love and partly fear And partly it was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her love with virgin pride And so I won my Guinevere My bright and beautiful bride End of poem This recording is in the public domain Love by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Read for LibriVox.org by JC Guan Montreal, February 2008 All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All are but ministers of love And feed his sacred flame Oft in my waking dreams do I Live or again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine stealing or the scene Had blended with the lights of Eve And she was there, my hope, my joy My own dear Guinevere She leaned against the armoured man The statue of the armoured knight She stood and listened to my lay I met the lingering light Few sorrows had she of her own My hope, my joy, my Guinevere She loves me best Whenever I sing the songs that make her grieve I played a soft and all-full air I sang an old and moving story An old rude song that suited well That ruined, wild and hoary She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face I told her of the night that wore Upon his shield a burning brand And that for ten long years he would The lady of the land I told her how he pinned an awe The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace She forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely night And that he crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny-glade When looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a fiend This miserable night And that, unknowing what he did He leaped and made a murderous band And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words, but when I reached That tenderest train of all the ditty My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my garless Guinevere The music and the doleful tale The rich and balmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope An undistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued Subdued and cherished long She wept with pity and delight She blushed with love and virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept She half-enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with the meek embrace And bending back her head looked up And gazed upon my face It was partly love and partly fear And partly it was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her love with virgin pride And so I won my Guinevere My bright and beauty as bright And of poem, this recording is in the public domain Love by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame Are all but ministers of love And feed his sacred flame Often my waking dreams Do I live or again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine stealing all the scene Had blended with the lights of Eve And she was there, my hope, my joy My own dear Genevieve She leaned against the armored man The statue of the armored knight She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope, my joy, my Genevieve She loves me best when ere I sing The songs that make her grieve I played a soft and doleful air I sang an old and moving story An old rude song that suited well That ruined wild and hoary She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the night that wore upon his shield A burning brand, and that for ten long years He wooed 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. She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace And she forgave me that I gaze too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely night And that he crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a fiend This miserable night And that unknowing what he did He leaped amid a murderous band Saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words But when I reached that tenderest Strain of all the ditty My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve The music and the doleful tale The rich and balmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope An undistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued And cherished long She wept with pity and delight She blushed with love and virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept She half-enclosed me with her arms And pressed me with a meek embrace And bending back her head looked up And gazed upon my face It was partly love and partly fear And partly it was a bashful art That I might rather feel Than see the swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her love with virgin pride And so I won my Genevieve My bright and beauteous bride End of poem This recording is in the public domain Often my waking dreams do I live Or again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine stealing over the scene Had blended with the lights of Eve And she was there, my hope, my joy My own dear Genevieve She leaned against the armoured man The statue of the armoured knight She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope, my joy, my Genevieve She loves me best Whenever I sing the songs that make her grieve I played 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 listened with a fitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face I told her of the night That wore upon his shield a burning brand And that for ten long years He wooed the lady of the land I told her how he pined An ah, the deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own She listened with a fitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace And she forgave me That I gazed too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn I crazed that bold and lovely night And that he crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and suddy glade There came and looked him in the face An angel, beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a fiend This miserable night And that, unknowing what he did He leaped amid a murderous band And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped her knees And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate the scorn That crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words But when I reached that tenderest strain Of all the diddy My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve The music and the doleful tale The rich and balmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope At indistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued Subdued and cherished long She wept with pity and delight She blushed with love in virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved She stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly with timorous eye She fled to me and wept She half-enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with a meek embrace And bending back her head Looked up and gazed upon my face It was partly love and partly fear And partly twas a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her love with virgin pride And so I won my Genevieve My bright and beauteous bride Love by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Read for LibriVox.org By Paul Curran In the Hills of Northern England February 2008 All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All are but ministers of love And feed his sacred flame Often my waking dreams Do I live or again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine stealing all the scene Had blended with the lights of Eve And she was there, my hope, my joy My own dear Genevieve She leaned against the armoured man The statue of the armoured knight She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope, my joy, my Genevieve She loves me best Whenever I sing the songs that make her grieve I played a soft and doleful air I sang an old and moving story An old rude song that suited well That ruined wild and hoary She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face I told her of the night that wore upon his shield A burning brand and that for ten long years He wooed 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 She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace And she forgave me that I gazed too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely night And that he'd crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade There came and looked him in the face An angel, beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a fiend This miserable night And that, unknowing what he did He leapt amid a murderous band And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate that scorn That crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words, but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty Scattering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve The music and the doleful tale The rich and barmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope And indistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued Subdued and cherished long And wept with pity and delight She blushed with love and virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept She half-enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with a meek embrace And bending back her head looked up And gazed upon my face It was partly love and partly fear And partly it was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her love with virgin bride And so I won my Genevieve Bright and beautious bride End of poem This recording is in the public domain Love by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Fetterman All thoughts, all passions, all delights Whatever stirs this mortal frame All a bit ministers of love And feed his sacred flame Often my waking dreams do I live or again That happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower The moonshine's stealing or the scene Had blended with the lights of Eve And she was there My hope, my joy, my own dear Genevieve She leaned against the armored man The statue of the armored knight She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light Few sorrows hath she of her own My hope, my joy, my Genevieve She loves me best when ere I sing The songs that make her grieve I played 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 listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face I told her of the night That wore upon his shield a burning brand And that for ten long years He wooed the lady of the land I told her how he pined an ah The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own She listened with a flitting blush With downcast eyes and modest grace And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely night And that he crossed the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night That sometimes from the savage den And sometimes from the darksome shade And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright And that he knew it was a fiend This miserable night And that unknowing what he did He leaped amid a murderous band And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land And how she wept and clasped his knees And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain And that she nursed him in a cave And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay His dying words But when I reached that tenderest strain Of all the diddy My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve The music and the dull, full tale The rich and balmy eve And hopes and fears that kindle hope An undistinguishable throng And gentle wishes long subdued Subdued and cherished long She wept with pity and delight She blushed with love and virgin shame And liked the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside As conscious of my look she stepped Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept She half-enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with a meek embrace And bending back her head looked up And gazed upon my face Twas partly love and partly fear And partly twas a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart I calmed her fears and she was calm And told her loved with virgin pride And so I won my Genevieve My bright and beauteous bride End of poem This recording is in the public domain