Sonnet I, Written At Cliefden Spring

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Majestic Thames, whose ample current flows,
  The wood reflecting in its silver tide,
  Which, hanging from the hills that grace thy side,
  O'er this clear fount its massy foliage throws;
  Here on thy brink my limbs again repose:
  Yet though thy waves Augusta's towers divide,
  Or by the foot of princely Windsor glide;
  Still with more heartfelt joy my bosom glows,
  While memory shows by Isis' virgin stream,
  Where first I woo'd the witching powers of song,
  As wrapt in fancy's sweet delusive dream,
  I desultory rov'd her banks along,
  Nor ask'd a brighter wreath to grace my theme,
  Than humbly grew her willowy shades among.

© Henry James Pye