WHAT are the Willows whispering in a row, <br />Nodding their old heads o'er the river's edge? <br />What does the West wind whisper to the sedge <br />And to the shame-faced purples drooping low? <br />Why sobs the water, in its broken flow <br />Lapping against the grey weir's ruined ledge? <br />And, in the thorny shelter of the hedge, <br />What bird unloads his heart of woe? <br /> <br />Green Avon's haunted! Look, from yonder bank <br />The willow leans, that hath not ceased to weep, <br />Whence, hanging garlands, fair Ophelia sank; <br />Since Jacques moped here the trees have had a tongue; <br />And all these streams and whispering willows keep <br />The moan of Desdemona's dying song.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-avon/
