THE FOUNT

O quiring voices of the sleepless springs,

O night of beauty, calm and odorous,

O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings

The passion of thy music amorous,

My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer,

Is choric through an April plenilune;

My music but a rapture in the air,

A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.