C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Fountain: A Conversation
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
W
Affectionate and true:
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke
And gurgled at our feet.
This water’s pleasant tune
With some old border-song or catch
That suits a summer’s noon;
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!”
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,—
The gray-haired man of glee:—
How merrily it goes!
’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain’s brink.
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved.”—
The man who thus complains:
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains;
I’ll be a son to thee!”
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
“Alas! that cannot be.”
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went:
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church clock,
And the bewildered chimes.