Old men now dead instructed us in this,
That there are many truths, but truth is one
And indissoluble; and many paths
Lead there. Therefore on this soft afternoon
We took the path of fountains, where it led,
Until we came, along the millefleur lawns,
To the first fountain. That leaped up and died,
And leaped and died again, and all its bronze
Figures bent toward us in apparent talk.
But all they spoke was in the babbling tune
The water played, so we resumed our walk
Along the path under the kindly sun,
And passed the second fountain, and the third,
And each was different, and all the same.
The water thrusting sunward like a sword,
Below, the cataract of tumbled gems
Caught in a basin where, itself renewed,
It thrust itself again into the sky
That was the comedy the fountains played
For us, as gradually all the park
Dimmed, and the dazzling water lit the dark.
Anecdote in the Parque Espaa
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