Text by Williams Wordsworth
Down to the vale this water steers,
How merrily it goes!
’Twill murmur on a thousand years
And flow as now it flows.
And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain’s brink.
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirr’d,
For that same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what Age takes away,
Than what it leaves behind.