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