The Old Spring, by Madison Cawein


††Under rocks whereon the rose
††Like a streak of morning glows;
††Where the azure-throated newt
††Drowses on the twisted root;
††And the brown bees, humming homeward,
††Stop to suck the honeydew;
††Fern- and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,
††Drips the wildwood spring I knew,
††Drips the spring my boyhood knew.


††Myrrh and music everywhere
††Haunt its cascadesólike the hair
††That a Naiad tosses cool,
††Swimming strangely beautiful,
††With white fragrance for her bosom,
††And her mouth a breath of songó
††Under leaf and branch and blossom
††Flows the woodland spring along,
††Sparkling, singing flows along.


††Still the wet wan mornings touch
††Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such
††Slender stars as dusk may have
††Pierce the rose that roofs its wave;
††Still the thrush may call at noontide
††And the whippoorwill at night;
††Nevermore, by sun or moontide,
††Shall I see it gliding white,
††Falling, flowing, wild and white.