Love
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 o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the Mount I lay Beside the Ruin'd Tower.
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!
She lean'd against the Armed Man, The Statue of the Armed Knight: She stood and listen'd to my Harp Amid the ling'ring Light.
Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The Songs, that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful Air, I sang an old and moving Story— An old rude Song that fitted well The Ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd 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 Knight, that wore Upon his Shield a burning Brand; And that for ten long Years he woo'd The Lady of the Land.
I told her, how he pin'd: and, ah! The low, the deep, the pleading tone, With which I sang another's Love, Interpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting Blush, With downcast Eyes and modest Grace; And she forgave me, that I gaz'd Too fondly on her Face!
But when I told the cruel scorn Which craz'd this bold and lovely Knight, And that be cross'd 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 look'd him in the face, An Angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew, it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!
And that, unknowing what he did, He leapt amid a murd'rous Band, And sav'd from Outrage worse than Death The Lady of the Land;
And how she wept and clasp'd his knees And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain
And that she nurs'd 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 reach'd That tenderest strain of all the Ditty, My falt'ring Voice and pausing Harp Disturb'd her Soul with Pity!
All Impulses of Soul and Sense Had thrill'd 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, Subdued and cherish'd long!
She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and maiden shame; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her Bosom heav'd—she stepp'd aside; As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd— Then suddenly with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head look'd up, And gaz'd 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 calm'd her Tears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin Pride. And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride!
The MAD MOTHER.
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue.
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be, To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe."
A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he.
Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers press'd. The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my babe and me.
Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie, for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die.
Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And if from me thou wilt not go. But still be true 'till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring.
Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou will live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life! I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stay'd: From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man! is wretched made, And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. —Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad.
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am. My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe; we'll live for aye.
Literary Analysis
This literary analysis was generated with AI and may contain interpretive differences. Provide your analysis in the comments section.
Summary
Wordsworth's poem begins with a sweeping claim: nearly every human feeling, from thought to delight, serves Love and helps keep it alive. That opening turns love into something larger than romance. It is not just a private emotion but a force that gathers the whole life of the mind and body into one sacred energy. The poem then narrows from this universal idea to a single remembered evening on a hill beside a ruined tower, where the speaker and Genevieve are together in a scene softened by moonlight and music.
From there, the poem moves like a carefully staged performance. The speaker sings an old story of a knight's suffering and devotion, and Genevieve's reactions-blushes, tears, trembling, and finally confession-reveal that the tale is doing more than entertaining her. It gives shape to feelings already present in both of them. The interpretive tension lies in the fact that the speaker seems to be singing about another lover while actually speaking his own desire. The story becomes a kind of indirect courtship, where imagination, sympathy, and art all work together until love is openly named and mutually returned. Because the supplied text also includes a second poem, the historical and textual boundaries of this entry are somewhat uncertain.
Theme
Love as a universal force rather than a single emotion; the poem presents it as the power behind thought, passion, memory, and art.
Art as emotional revelation; song and storytelling allow the speaker to express feelings he cannot state directly.
Sympathy and shared feeling; Genevieve is moved by the tale because it awakens emotions already present between the two lovers.
Nature as a setting for intimacy; moonlight, evening, mountain, and ruin create a mood in which love can emerge.
Indirect courtship; the speaker approaches love through the language of another person's suffering, making desire feel shy and artful rather than blunt.
Memory and romantic recollection; the speaker returns again and again to the "happy hour," suggesting love is preserved through remembrance.
Literary Devices
- Personification - Love is treated as a living power with a "sacred flame," giving the emotion almost religious authority.
- Framing narrative - The poem opens with a general meditation and then shifts into a remembered scene, letting the private story embody the larger claim about love.
- Ballad-like storytelling - The speaker tells a dramatic tale within the poem, using a simple, songlike structure that suits oral performance.
- Repetition - Repeated phrases and recurring descriptions of Genevieve's blushes and tears emphasize emotional intensification.
- Imagery - Moonlight, the ruined tower, the harp, and the mountain scene create a vivid romantic atmosphere.
- Irony - The speaker appears to narrate another lover's story, but the tale secretly reveals his own feelings.
- Allusion - The knight-and-lady story borrows the language of medieval romance to deepen the speaker's confession.
- Enjambment - The flowing lines help the poem feel musical and responsive, matching the movement of song and feeling.
symbols
Symbolism
- Love - more than a feeling between two people; it stands for the organizing power behind desire, memory, and imagination.
- Moonlight - a soft, transforming presence that signals romance and makes ordinary space feel enchanted.
- Ruined Tower - a reminder of past time and decay, contrasting with the renewal offered by love.
- Harp - the speaker's art, which becomes the medium through which hidden emotion is expressed.
- The Knight's tale - a symbolic mirror for the speaker's own courtship and longing.
- Genevieve's blush - visible evidence of feeling awakening beneath modest restraint.
tone_and_mood_reasoning? nope
Tone
Wordsworth's tone is warmly earnest, tender, and quietly self-aware, as if he is both celebrating love and carefully testing how far language can carry it. The atmosphere for the reader is dreamy and intimate: moonlight, music, grief, and blushes create a soft romantic haze, but there is also a delicate tension because the speaker must hide his own desire inside a story about someone else.
Historical Context
Wordsworth is one of the central poets of English Romanticism, a movement that valued feeling, imagination, memory, nature, and the expressive power of ordinary language. In that context, a poem like this fits the period's interest in inward experience and in the way art can reveal emotion indirectly rather than through plain statement.
The ballad form also matters: Romantic poets often adapted traditional song and narrative patterns to give emotional experience a musical, memorable shape. The supplied text, however, includes another poem after the first, so the exact textual boundaries here are uncertain and should be checked when using this page as a reference.
Similar Poems
- She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways - William Wordsworth
- A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal - William Wordsworth
- Annabel Lee - Edgar Allan Poe
- La Belle Dame sans Merci - John Keats
- Lucy Gray - William Wordsworth
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