THE poor proud mother in the sad old tale,
That wept her lovely children's loss in vain
Grew one with her own tears' most bitter rain;
The immortal Gods that spared not for her wail
Then made from out her grief's eternal flow
A never-failing fountain, at whose brink
Wayfaring men oft stooped them down to drink
And blessed those Gods, whose envy wrought her woe.
So may these bitter springs with years grow sweet,
And welling ever upward full and strong,
As when from many a broken heart they burst,
Stay not for frost nor fail for summer heat,
But make fair pools life's desert way along
Where unborn generations slake their thirst.