James McIntyre

(25 May 1828 – 31 March 1906 / Forres, Scotland)

Lines on a Fountain


We love cold water as it flows from the fountain,
Which nature hath brewed alone in the mountain,
In the wild woods and in the rocky dell
Where man hath not been but the deer loves to dwell,
And away across the sea in far distant lands
In Asia's gloomy jungles and Africa's drifting sands,
Where to the thirsty traveller a charming spot of green
Is by far the rarest gem his eyes have ever seen.
And when he hath quenched his thirst at the cooling spring,
With many grateful songs he makes the air to ring.
For many nights he dreams of this scene of bliss,
And when he thinks of Heaven it is of such as this.

Submitted: Friday, May 04, 2012

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