And shall the living waters heed
our vain desire, insensate Art!
and fill the common dust I knead
upgather'd from the trodden mart?
As well might they forsake their clime
of virgin green and blue, to creep
in cities where our tears are slime,
where our unquicken'd bodies sleep.
— But thou, O soul, hast stood for sure
in the far paradisal bower,
there where our passion sparkles pure
beneath the eternal morning hour.
and oft, in twilights listening,
my sleeping memories are stirr'd
by lavings of the unstaunched spring
upwelling in a sudden word.
Why shouldst thou come to squander here
the treasure of those deeps on me?
nay, where our fount is free and clear
stay there, and let me come to thee!