Winter's never here at the fountain Whose waters' liveliness seems a warm And open candor. Things are but things and do as they must: As in the fountain's pallorous spangling forever Heaviness and light contest. Beyond the torus of its halo The summery waters' motions endeavor, With the tear-bright dignity of an eye in agony, To show how lightly may a substance go An afflatus of divinity. All things to their opposite use Tortured, as when this lithesome watercourse Was narrowed from easy murmur into gladdened sound, Reveal some laden tale of their earthly course Returning to their source. As when like tears to ground we streak And the opened waters that accompany burial Flow in broken speech, so the startled water, at its arc Interpenetrate of scattered light, torridly tumbles All rainbows to one stone bowl. Something had sung up From the dark watered words summoned to console Bodied brightness; as when we ourselves, by a terrible pity pul- Led vocal from the womb, tighten and squall To give creation's own Cry to the beautiful.