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.

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