If, while my passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart,
Feel how it throbs for you!
Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim
In pity to your lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame
It wishes to discover.
More verses by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
- Lines Written After A Walk Before Supper
- Forbearance
- The Complaint Of Ninathoma
- To A Young Ass, Its Mother Being Tethered Near It
- Monody On The Death Of Chatterton