Hid in the ocean-girt Nemæan wood
        Hermit he lived, and here St. Rumon died,
This crystal spring his simple want supplied,
Wild roots and berries were his slender food.
And yet he found the beast in solitude
Must needs be fought with; day by day he died,
And taught that though the saintliest souls were
The cleansed in spirit might be pure of blood.
His bones lie far away, but here they bring
The May-tide child for healing, maidens here
Drop the cross straws to see if love is kind,
And here the mother praying, wild with fear,
Will ask the well what bodes the rising wind
To him she brought as babe to Rumon’s spring.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 28)