The Burgomeister's Well

A peaceful spot, a little street, So still between the double roar Of sea and city that it seemed A rest in music, set before Some clashing chords--vibrating yet With hurried measures fast and sweet; For so the harsh chords of the town, And so the ocean's rythmic beat. A little street with linden trees So thickly set, the belfry's face Was leaf-veiled, while above them pierced, Four slender spires flamboyant grace. Old porches carven when the trees, Were seedlings yellow in the sun Five hundred years ago that bright Upon the quaint old city shone. A fountain prim, and richly cut In ruddy granite, carved to tell How a good burgomeister rear'd The stone above the people's well. A sea-horse from his nostrils blew Two silver threads; a dragon's lip Dropp'd di'monds, and a giant hand Held high an urn on finger tip. 'Twas there I met my little maid, There saw her flaxen tresses first; She filled the cup for one who lean'd (A soldier, crippl'd and athirst) Against the basin's carven rim; Her dear small hand's white loveliness Was pinkly flush'd, the gay bright drops Plash'd on her brow and silken dress. I took the flagon from her hand, Too small, dear hand, for such a weight. From cobweb weft and woof is spun The tapestry of Life and Fate! The linden trees had gilded buds, The dove wheeled high on joyous wing, When on that darling hand of hers I slipped the glimmer of a ring. Ah, golden heart, and golden locks Ye wove so sweet, so sure a spell! That quiet day I saw her first Beside the Burgomeister's Well!