William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

The River Eden, Cumberland

EDEN! till now thy beauty had I viewed
By glimpses only, and confess with shame
That verse of mine, whate’er its varying mood,
Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name:
Yet fetched from Paradise that honor came,
Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers
That have no rival among British bowers,
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame.
Measuring thy course, fair Stream! at length I pay
To my life’s neighbor dues of neighborhood;
But I have traced thee on thy winding way
With pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained,
For things far off we toil, while many a good
Not sought, because too near, is never gained.

1. The Glen of Loch Etive
2. Seathwaite Chapel
3. Iona
4. In the Sound of Mull
5. Hart-Leap Well

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1723

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