The Fountain
In attitude benign the elm holds outAbsolving arms above the great grey stoneThat murmurs always in a monotone.
Not as water gushed from the rock when struckBy the Prophet Moses. Here a steady flowTo quench the thirst,—unceasing, clear and slow.
Nineteen-hundred-two, perchance you thoughtOf that young immortal poet whose nameWas writ in water, but undying his fame.
And so you chose your class memorialWhose liquid tones forever will alludeTo you who serving win our gratitude.
