A Mountain Spring    By Henry Kendall
   Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
    Of thunder and the ’wildering wings of rain
    Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
    And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
    But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
    Year after year, the days of tender heat,
    And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet.
    And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
    A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
    The secret that its heart of water knows,
    The story of a loved and lost repose;
    Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
    A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
    Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.

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