Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade !
But thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain :
And only Hilt and Stump remain.
More verses by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
- Fancy In Nubibus, Or The Poet In The Clouds
- Domestic Peace
- I Know 'Tis But A Dream, Yet Feel More Anguish (Fragment)
- The Sigh
- Epitaph On An Infant