Classic Poem

The fountain is cold and there is no water more healing. The margin is green with fine grass, and the alders ward off the sunlight with many-leaved boughs. Burning Titan now hangs in mid-heaven and the parched meads glare under the afflicting star.
Stay, wayfarer, since you are heated by the noon sunshine and your languid feet can bear you no further. Here you may rest from your weariness, and grow cool in the wind and the green shadows, and ease your thirst with the limpid water.