Their feet across the velvet greensward tripped,
Their bosoms pressed the crumbling grey-stone basin,
They fed the ruddy goldfish laughing-lipped ...
Is not one left? Look, look! I seem to trace in
The murky deeps some shape of hoary carp—
Too late! for now I only see your face in
The water, smiling questions. He was sharp,
That king-fish, but I caught his gold crown's glimmer ...
Oh, fountain, tune again for us your harp,
Fling through the air for us your diamond shimmer