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Poem by William Wordsworth
Song of the Spinning Wheel
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground; Turn the swift wheel round and round! Now, beneath the starry sky, Couch the widely-scattered sheep;-- Ply the pleasant labour, ply! For the spindle, while they sleep, Runs with speed more smooth and fine, Gathering up a trustier line. Short-lived likings may be bred By a glance from fickle eyes; But true love is like the thread Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
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