Christabel

                    A little child, a limber elf, 
                    Singing, dancing to itself, 
                    A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
                    That always finds, and never seeks, 
                    Makes such a vision to the sight 
                    As fills a father's eyes with light; 
                    And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
                    Upon his heart, that he at last 
                    Must needs express his love's excess 
                    With words of unmeant bitterness. 
                    Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
                    Thoughts so all unlike each other; 
                    To mutter and mock a broken charm, 
                    To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
                    Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
                    At each wild word to feel within 
                    A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
                    And what, if in a world of sin 
                    (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) 
                    Such giddiness of heart and brain 
                    Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
                    So talks as it's most used to do. 
                                        
                    END
                    
                    Coleridge's plan
                    for completing the story, according to James Gillman.
                    
                    CHRISTABEL-CONTENTS

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