Great poetry of William Wordsworth
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Poem by William Wordsworth

There is a little unpretending Rill

Of limpid water, humbler far than aught

That ever among Men or Naiads sought

Notice or name! It quivers down the hill,

Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;

Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought

Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought

Of private recollection sweet and still!

Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!

But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say

That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,

And flies their memory fast almost as they;

The immortal Spirit of one happy day

Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

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