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But treacherous wave; the very thought

Of sad Narcissus’ dooming brought

Fear to my heart. But soon I said:

“Whereof, O man, art thou afraid?

’Twere madness didst thou not essay

This fount wherein sweet sunbeams play.”

Forthwith then on my knees I sank,

Pressing the verdant mossy bank

With wish more closely to behold

The flood, and pebbles note (than gold

More bright), that freely paved the floor

Of that fair fount.

Without the door

Of paradise the blest, I ween

No sight more beauteous may be seen

Than this bright well. The gushing source

Springs ever fresh and sweet. Its course

It takes through runnels twain, full deep,

And broadly trenched; it knows no sleep

By day or night, for ne’er ’tis dried

By wasting drought of summer tide,

Nor hath stern winter’s iron hand

The power to make its waters stand

Immovable, but out the ground

Its babble calls, the whole year round,

Close, tender herbage, which doth push

Unceasingly, strong, thick and lush.

Fast in the fountain’s pavement shone

Two sparkling spheres of crystal stone,

Whereon my gaze with wonder fell:

And, when the tale thereof I tell,

Your ears will tingle as I trow,

And pleasure unto marvel grow.