Poems (Cromwell)/The Fountain
For works with similar titles, see The Fountain.
THE FOUNTAIN
My garden fountain sings to-night, Its margin is all moist with spray,—That snow-white marble margin where A white rose dreams of drooping day.
Upon the rose fall rhythmic drops, Snow-cool from the pale fountain's crest,—Drops cooler than the shadows when The sun leads day-spring to the west.
Unto the rose, my fountain's rim Is ample joy, while I, through tears, Can see my garden growing dim, And dream of sorrow's girding spheres.