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Poem by William Wordsworth

Nuns Well, Brigham

THE CATTLE, crowding round this beverage clear
To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod
The encircling turf into a barren clod,
Through which the waters creep, then disappear,
Born to be lost in Derwent, flowing near;
Yet oer the brink, and round the limestone cell
Of the pure spring, (they call it the Nuns Well,
Name that first struck by chance my startled ear,)
A tender spirit broods,the pensive shade
Of ritual honors to this fountain paid
By hooded votaresses with saintly cheer;
Albeit oft the Virgin-Mother mild
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of too soft a tear.

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth's other poems:
  1. Monastery of Old Bangor
  2. To the Lady Eleanor Butler and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby
  3. Mona
  4. Miserrimus
  5. The Brownie

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