Oh spring-mouth, oh you giver, you mouth,
Of the inexhaustible One, of the Pure, speak –
You, mask of marble who are the face
Of the flowing water. And you, the outlet
Of the concealed water-channel. Hurry on past the graves,
Hasten from the slopes of the Appenines, bring report of
Your tales, which comes running
To your ancient darkened spout
How it cascades down into the receptacle lying before you.
This is the sleeping, recumbent ear,
The marble-ear, into which you whisper endlessly.
An ear of the Earth. You hold your discourse
With it alone. If a pitcher were thrust forward,
It would seem to interrupt what you are saying.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet