“This is a magic cup
That needs no lifting up,
And gushes the cool drink
From an ever flowing brink,
From an ever filling hollow.
As you swallow,
You can feel the water go
Against your lips with tumbling flow
And all its noises hear:
As if you were a deer
Or a wild goat,
Sucking the water into your throat
Where a little brook goes by
Under the trees and the summer sky.
Oh it is fun to drink this way!—
Like a pleasant game to play,
Not like drinking in other places;
And it is fun to watch the faces
That come and bend them at this urn.
Something you can learn
Of each person’s secret mind:
Know which is selfish, which is kind:
Those who guard their dignity.
And those whose curiosity
Is turning cold.
Many of the young are old,
And think
A drink is nothing but a drink,
Water is water—always the same;
They could not turn it into a game.
Charily, with solemn mien,
They lean—
These incurious of heart—
And hurrying depart.
But the children know it’s a gay rare thing
To drink outdoors from a running spring;
And laugh
And quaff,
As if their inquisitive zest
Would challenge to a test
The bounty of this store
Which gives, and still has more.
They drink up all they can:
Wait in turn to drink again.
As I watch the reaching lips
It seems to be my mouth that sips:
I stoop and rise with each one.
But when they are done,
And their faces touched with spray,
They quickly wipe it away.
And this, sometimes, I regret,—
Because their lips look prettier, wet.”

Poem of the Day