The Old Spring

I     Under rocks whereon the rose     Like a streak of morning glows;     Where the azure-throated newt     Drowses on the twisted root;     And the brown bees, humming homeward,     Stop to suck the honeydew;     Fern- and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,     Drips the wildwood spring I knew,     Drips the spring my boyhood knew. II     Myrrh and music everywhere     Haunt its cascades - like the hair     That a Naiad tosses cool,     Swimming strangely beautiful,     With white fragrance for her bosom,     And her mouth a breath of song -     Under leaf and branch and blossom     Flows the woodland spring along,     Sparkling, singing flows along. III     Still the wet wan mornings touch     Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such     Slender stars as dusk may have     Pierce the rose that roofs its wave;     Still the thrush may call at noontide     And the whippoorwill at night;     Nevermore, by sun or moontide,     Shall I see it gliding white,     Falling, flowing, wild and white.