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A soft orchard, dimpled between the slopes of blue hills and nestled in a green meadow,
Where deep woods and translucent streams flow with quiet charm,
Stands a wayside cottage near the market-village, Nether Stowey.
Thrust back into the woods, this quaint stone cottage lay.
The May sunrise awoke, on this particular morn,a woman of young years, with harsh sorrows.
Between-whiles, this honest, and good natured woman tendered the garden there.
Maid-of-all-work, and nurse, if needs be, ministered to every spirit.
She attended to herself and her baby, tempered in textured dreams,
There, in this modest wayside cottage, their abode, did dwell serenely.
Chopping of firewood could be heard throughout the village.
People, busily made domestic preparations, with breakfast at first light.
She, instead, had energies unbounded, nobility and beauty esteemed by full gray eyes.
Diligently she raked and hoed, thinned out and weeded.
Vegetable beds, so bountiful, with blistered hands and aching back, she labored.
These laborious efforts of such a kind kept her cupboards full.
She had no husband, for he lacked in vivacious fashion and warmth of heart.
He was false and insidious, sharp-tongued, with ever an angry face.
His recourse was to wander off, with visions born of selfish aims.
Abandoned, thus, she, through tender, gentle methods, maintained her life.
Kept the child in comfort as she could on a bed of hard straw.
Her feelings were steadfast and of unblemished purity, compensated in an ebb and flow.
The tepid townsfolk did not so readily embrace her warmth.
They kept a calm level but with inscrutable mind.
They were not too amiable, and in lesser moments, less good tempered.
She, however, kept ever present her best nature, infinitely more precious.
The weal was given her with chill and bitter gossip came;
Far-heard the whispers, flecked with over-weighted tongues.
The green and woody landscape beckoned a refresh'd eye, yet -
The village called Nether Stowey was emerald green no more!
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