  In the mid garden doth a fountain stand; From font to font its waters fall alway, Freshening the leaves by their continual play:— Such often have I seen in southern land, While every leaf, as though by light winds fanned, Has quivered underneath the dazzling spray, Keeping its greenness all the sultry day, While others pine aloof, a parchÈd band. And in the mystic garden of the soul A fountain, nourished from the upper springs, Sends ever its clear waters up on high, Which, while a dewy freshness round it flings, All plants which there acknowledge its control |
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