love

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.


More about love at love above..

Love

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.

Love

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, when'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

Love

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Love

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And SHE was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!