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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420696" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Fountain</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Traveller! on thy journey toiling<br>By the swift Powow,<br>With the summer sunshine falling<br>On thy heated brow,<br>Listen, while all else is still,<br>To the brooklet from the hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing<br>By that streamlet's side,<br>And a greener verdure showing<br>Where its waters glide,<br>Down the hill-slope murmuring on,<br>Over root and mossy stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth<br>O'er the sloping hill,<br>Beautiful and freshly springeth<br>That soft-flowing rill,<br>Through its dark roots wreathed and bare,<br>Gushing up to sun and air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Brighter waters sparkled never<br>In that magic well,<br>Of whose gift of life forever<br>Ancient legends tell,<br>In the lonely desert wasted,<br>And by mortal lip untasted.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Waters which the proud Castilian<br>Sought with longing eyes,<br>Underneath the bright pavilion<br>Of the Indian skies,<br>Where his forest pathway lay<br>Through the blooms of Florida.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Years ago a lonely stranger,<br>With the dusky brow<br>Of the outcast forest-ranger,<br>Crossed the swift Powow,<br>And betook him to the rill<br>And the oak upon the hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O'er his face of moody sadness<br>For an instant shone<br>Something like a gleam of gladness,<br>As he stooped him down<br>To the fountain's grassy side,<br>And his eager thirst supplied.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With the oak its shadow throwing<br>O'er his mossy seat,<br>And the cool, sweet waters flowing<br>Softly at his feet,<br>Closely by the fountain's rim<br>That lone Indian seated him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Autumn's earliest frost had given<br>To the woods below<br>Hues of beauty, such as heaven<br>Lendeth to its bow;<br>And the soft breeze from the west<br>Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far behind was Ocean striving<br>With his chains of sand;<br>Southward, sunny glimpses giving,<br>'Twixt the swells of land,<br>Of its calm and silvery track,<br>Rolled the tranquil Merrimac.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Over village, wood, and meadow<br>Gazed that stranger man,<br>Sadly, till the twilight shadow<br>Over all things ran,<br>Save where spire and westward pane<br>Flashed the sunset back again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gazing thus upon the dwelling<br>Of his warrior sires,<br>Where no lingering trace was telling<br>Of their wigwam fires,<br>Who the gloomy thoughts might know<br>Of that wandering child of woe?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,<br>Hills that once had stood<br>Down their sides the shadows throwing<br>Of a mighty wood,<br>Where the deer his covert kept,<br>And the eagle's pinion swept!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where the birch canoe had glided<br>Down the swift Powow,<br>Dark and gloomy bridges strided<br>Those clear waters now;<br>And where once the beaver swam,<br>Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the wood-bird's merry singing,<br>And the hunter's cheer,<br>Iron clang and hammer's ringing<br>Smote upon his ear;<br>And the thick and sullen smoke<br>From the blackened forges broke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Could it be his fathers ever<br>Loved to linger here?<br>These bare hills, this conquered river,-<br>Could they hold them dear,<br>With their native loveliness<br>Tamed and tortured into this?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sadly, as the shades of even<br>Gathered o'er the hill,<br>While the western half of heaven<br>Blushed with sunset still,<br>From the fountain's mossy seat<br>Turned the Indian's weary feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Year on year hath flown forever,<br>But he came no more<br>To the hillside on the river<br>Where he came before.<br>But the villager can tell<br>Of that strange man's visit well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the merry children, laden<br>With their fruits or flowers,<br>Roving boy and laughing maiden,<br>In their school-day hours,<br>Love the simple tale to tell<br>Of the Indian and his well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420696" data-title="The Fountain de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="Traveller! on thy journey toiling
By the swift Powow,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heated brow,
Listen, while all else is still,
To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing
By that streamlet's side,
And a gree..."></div>
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