The Fountain / William Wordsworth

A Conversation

We talked with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young,

And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke

And gurgled at our feet.

`Now, Matthew!' said I, `let us match

This water's pleasant tune

With some old border-song, or catch

That suits a summer's noon;

`Or of the church-clock and the chimes

Sing here beneath the shade

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes

Which you last April made!'

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

The spring beneath the tree;

And thus the dear old man replied,

The grey-haired man of glee:

`No check, no stay, this streamlet fears,

How merrily it goes!

'Twill murmur on a thousand years

And flow as now it flows.

`And here, on this delightful day,

I cannot choose but think

How oft, a vigorous man, I lay

Beside this fountain's brink.

`My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,

For the same sound is in my ears

Which in those days I heard.

`Thus fares it still in our decay:

And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what Age takes away,

Than what it leaves behind.

`The blackbird amid leafy trees,

The lark above the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

`With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free:

`But we are pressed by heavy laws;

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

`If there be one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own, - 

It is the man of mirth.

`My days, my friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved,

And many love me; but by none

Am I enough beloved.'

`Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains:

`And, Matthew, for thy children dead

I'll be a son to thee!'

At this he grasped my hand and said

`Alas! that cannot be.'

We rose up from the fountain-side;

And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;

And through the wood we went;

And ere we came to Leonard's Rock

He sang those witty rhymes

About the crazy old church-clock,

And the bewildered chimes.