like Sunny Jim in wintertime
I hear the waters moan
their language never changing
no matter where I roam
nor do the turning seasons
make play upon their moods
as rivers run nor patient lakes
are with own joys imbued
’tis only in the minstrel’s song
or in the poet’s dreams
that silvered songs and singing tales
live for us in those streams.

The Fountain

the fountain sings the saddest song
in tears that fall and fall once more
reflected back upon former glories
days gone, ever lost in water’s pure

the fountain knows just one song
and sings today as it did back when
lovers used to wish on bright futures
this spring sang hopes and dreams back then

but now this song is lost and weary
so many wishes washed away
like marble bright worn round and dreary
only shadows of former days.