THE FONT IN THE FOREST
THERE’S a prim little pond
At the back of Beyond,
And its waters are over your ears;
It’s a sort of a tarn
Behind Robin Hood’s barn,
Where the fish live a million years.
And the mortals who drink
At its pebbly brink
Are immediately changed into mullets,
Whose heads grow immense
At their bodies’ expense,
And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.
But they willingly stay
Who have once found the way,
And they crave neither credit nor blame;
For to wiggle their tails,
And to practise their scales,
Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.
Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.