Poem by William Wordsworth

The Avon

     A Feeder of the Annan

AVON, — a precious, an immortal name!
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard of, and their channels wear
Like this contented, though unknown to fame:
For great and sacred is the modest claim
Of streams to Nature’s love, where’er they flow;
And ne’er did Genius slight them, as they go,
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.
But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,
Anguish, and death: full oft, where innocent blood
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,
Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:
Never for like distinction may the good
Shrink from thy name, pure rill, with unpleased ears.

1. To the Sons of Burns
2. Monument of Mrs. Howard
3. Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm
4. Roman Antiquities
5. The Glen of Loch Etive

Anonymous The Avon ("THE AVON to the Severn runs")

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