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Poem by William Wordsworth
On the Wayside between Preston and Liverpool UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate’er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort or for festal mirth; That pile of turf is half a century old: Yes, traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth ’Gainst him who raised it,—his last work on earth: Thence has it, with the son, so strong a hold Upon his father’s memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air, In annual renovation thus it stands,— Rude mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And redbreasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.
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