'T is said there is a fount in Flower Land, —
De Leon found it, — where Old Age away
Throws weary mind and heart, and fresh as day
Springs from the dark and joins Aurora's band:
This tale, transformed by some skilled trouvere's wand
From the old myth in a Greek poet's lay,
Rests on no truth. Change bodies as Time may,
Souls do not change though heavy be his hand.
Who of us needs this fount? What soul is old?
Age is a mask, — in heart we grow more young,
For in our winters we talk most of spring;
And as we near, slow-tottering, God's safe fold,
Youth's loved ones gather nearer; — though among
The seeming dead, youth's songs more clear they sing.