Excerpt from The People's Palace

Fountains.

This night is pure and clear as thrice refinèd silver.
Silence, the cape of Death, lies heavy
Round the bare shoulders of the hills.
Faint throbs and murmurs
At moments growing to a mutter, then subsiding,
Fill the night with mystery and panic.
The honey-tongued arguings of fountains
Stir the air with flutes and gentle voices. -

The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep -
Curved with a smile, the poor mouths
Clutch at a half-remembered song
Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing, -
Laughing while they hear the secrets
Echoed from the depths of Earth beneath them.

This half-remembered song -
This flow of sad-restrained laughter
Jars with the jets of youthful water
Springing from the twisted masks,
For this is but the birth of water,

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