The Virgin by William Wordsworth
Mother, whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin
allied;
Woman, above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost,
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak
strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblem
-ished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue
coast,
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might
bend
As to a visible form in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in
thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene.
