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.
The Avon
William Wordsworth
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Poem topics: death, flower, green, heaven, nature, never, tree, work, voice, innocent, good, claim, current, great, unknown, pure, precious, waste, anguish, love, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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amelia: i am pretending to work for avon
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