Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/208



Sycamore, oft musical with Bees,— Such Tents the Patriarchs lov'd! O long unharm'd May all its aged Boughs o'er-canopy The small round Basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping Infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the Traveller With soft and even Pulse! Nor ever cease Yon tiny Cone of Sand its soundless Dance, Which at the Bottom, like a Fairy's Page, As merry and no taller, dances still, Nor wrinkles the smooth Surface of the Fount. Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is Moss, A soft Seat, and a deep and ample Shade. Thou may'st toil far and find no second Tree. Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy Heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy Spirit, list'ning to some gentle Sound, Or passing Gale or Hum of murmuring Bees!