In Russia’s gloomy region,
Not far from Valdai’s mount,
In the grounds of Tsarskoé Sélo,
There stands a marble fount;
And many have stood in wonder,
And gazed in mute surprise,
For in sculpture rare, with no compare,
A broken pitcher lies.
This is the strangest fountain
Methinks has ever been;
For in mourning attitude
A girl’s fair form is seen;
Bending low in girlish grief,
She scans with sorrow sore,
From pitcher gleam a crystal stream,
That flows for evermore.
Noiselessly it ripples on,
The thirsty soul to fill,
And on it flows through all the rents,
A never failing rill;
‘Twas thus one stood and wondered,
At seeming wondrous thing;
As hidden quite, from all human sight,
There gushed the tideless spring.
Methinks that marble fountain,
A sculptured picture rare,
Of rugged rocks, and shattered jug,
And youthful figure fair;
Methinks the crystal spring,
Using a useless thing,
Are lessons sweet, the soul to greet,
And tune the heart to sing.
M. H. P.