Classic Poem

The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye!
Beneath a cold November sky,
I first beheld its waters clear,
Which stole by meads and orchards dear,
And heard the music of its flow,
As through the vales it wander'd slow
With many a song, and many a sigh,
The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye.

The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye,
Stealing through glens like maiden shy,
Kissing the green banks by thy brink,
Where little birds stoop down and drink,
And watering many a floweret dear,
Which in the green creeks blossoms here!
How sweet upon thy marge to lie,
The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye!

The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye,
With happy Hereford close by!
And whether sleep the eyelids seal,
Or busy hands press round the wheel,
Should pleasures cheer, or sorrows lower,
Thou murmurest of thy Maker's power.
Who never leaves thy channels dry,
The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye.

The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye!
A ruminating stranger I,
Whose home is near the rough Land's End;
But thy dear face is like a friend.
I love thee, stretch to thee my hand:
We have clear brooks in Cornish-land,
Where rushes grow and swallows fly,
The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye.

The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye!
Another look and then good-bye.
Beside our shelter'd harbour clear,
Wait for me wife and children dear;
And though to these my journeying tends,
I add thee to my list of friends,
Well pleased to see and be so nigh
The Wye, the Wye, the winding Wye.