The Fountain
William Wordsworth, 1807

_A Conversation._

     We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
     Affectionate and true,
     A pair of friends, though I was young,
     And Matthew seventy-two.

     We lay beneath a spreading oak,
     Beside a mossy seat;
     And from the turf a fountain broke
     And gurgled at our feet.

     "Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match
     This water's pleasant tune
     With some old border song, or catch
     That suits a summer's noon.

     "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
     Sing here beneath the shade
     That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
     Which you last April made!"

     In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
     The spring beneath the tree;
     And thus the dear old man replied,
     The gray-hair'd man of glee:

     "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
     How merrily it goes!
     'Twill murmur on a thousand years
     And flow as now it flows.

     "And here, on this delightful day
     I cannot choose but think
     How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
     Beside this fountain's brink.

     "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
     My heart is idly stirr'd,
     For the same sound is in my ears
     Which in those days I heard.

     "Thus fares it still in our decay:
     And yet the wiser mind
     Mourns less for what Age takes away,
     Than what it leaves behind.

     "The blackbird amid leafy trees--
     The lark above the hill,
     Let loose their carols when they please,
     Are quiet when they will.

     "With Nature never do they wage
     A foolish strife; they see
     A happy youth, and their old age
     Is beautiful and free:

     "But we are press'd by heavy laws;
     And often, glad no more,
     We wear a face of joy, because
     We have been glad of yore.

     "If there be one who need bemoan
     His kindred laid in earth,
     The household hearts that were his own,--
     It is the man of mirth.

     "My days, my friend, are almost gone,
     My life has been approved,
     And many love me; but by none
     Am I enough beloved."

     "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
     The man who thus complains!
     I live and sing my idle songs
     Upon these happy plains:

     "And Matthew, for thy children dead
     I'll be a son to thee!"
     At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
     "Alas! that cannot be."

     We rose up from the fountain-side;
     And down the smooth descent
     Of the green sheep-track did we glide
     And through the wood we went;

     And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
     He sang those witty rhymes
     About the crazy old church-clock,
     And the bewilder'd chimes.