167
Father Bernadine:
He is a strange child, for he will not play
With other urchins, racing, or at ball.
His pencil never absent from his hand
As tho' he fear'd that night would fall too soon,
He'll watch the fountains all an Autumn day,
Mount and descend against the sky serene,
Until the gloaming deepen thro' the glade.
Peregrina:
His hand shall falter and his purpose fail
Attainment, as the sky-aspiring jets
Of frustrate fountains falling back in spray
Sink sighing to their marble bason's pen,
Missing the goal they strove for, with a sob
To find the stars so unattainable.
Still seeking very Beauty, as a moth
Flitting across a hall of festal lights
May feverishly beat a little hour
