Fair fount, that singest in the air,

And spinnest in the sun

Raiment for River Gods to wear,

From dawn till day be done;

Oh! could I learn thy magic art, and share

Thy sympathetic sense, that moulds thee forms

So sweet in calm, so glorious in storms;

Could beauty sway my speech, as thee the air!

Fair fount, thy music swift and strange,

Thy lightnings in mine eyes,

Weave me with every sunny change

Such pleasant phantasies,

That I, methinks, could dream away my years

Peacefully gazing, as thy silver dews

Make harmonies of lovely sounds and hues,

In answer to the soft wind as it veers.

Image of joy and flowing song,

And fancy without measure,

Thy tongue is tuneful all day long,

Thy heart leaps up with pleasure:

Thine is the glorious youth where jocund mind

Weaves tears with laughter, and regrets with hopes,

Whose careless moments, like thy sunny drops,

Are fancy-wooed, as they are by the wind.

But when the months have chained thy heart,

And sealed thy tongue with frost,

An emblem of that day thou art

When all we loved is lost:

The heart of Age is but a frozen thing;

The eyes of Age see but a wintry mist,

By no sweet visions like thy sunbows kissed,

Whence smiles have fled, and tears have ceased to spring.