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!