Melancholy. A Fragment.

Stretched on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall,
Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep--
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall,
Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep.

The fern was pressed beneath her hair,
The dark green adder's tongue was there;
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flushed: her eager look
Beamed eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
And her bent forehead worked with troubled thought.
Strange was the dream-----

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.