Ponce de Leon to the Fountain of Youth

I

Thou bubbling rippling diamond that I seek

 Among these Indian isles, while heavier grow

 Both foot and heart, as hope of thee ebbs low,

And as the years add wrinkles to my cheek:

Behold, my back grows bent, my hand grows weak,

 And on the shrivelled vellum of my brow

 The years have written all the cares they know,

And I am whitening like a wintry peak.

And thou art in existence,—in some isle

 Where pebbles of pure gold thy clear depths pave,

Like golden thoughts beneath a dreamer's smile.

Alone some silent Indian stoops to lave

 His wrinkles off; or else, from while to while,

Some wounded panther laps thy healing wave.

II

Fount, shall I never find thee? Must I still

 Search isle on isle, whilst other men behold

 Their baser dreams fulfilled, and clutch the gold,

The sparkling stones, that cure no human ill?

Shall every other Spanish seeker fill

 His ship with ingots, plunge in gems untold

 His gauntlet elbow-high, while I grow old

In searching for the sapphire of thy rill?

Fount, I'll attain thee yet; and by the brink

 I'll kneel, and see my white reflected hair

For the last time, before I drink and drink:

But as I wash the wrinkles and the care

 From off my brow, and in thy brightness sink,

What, if made young, I died of rapture there?