text:  A cup of water from Hippocrene tasting as it must of innocent pastoral sights and sounds of the bleat of lambs of the shadows of leaves and flowers that have leaned over it of the rosy hands of children whose privilege it ever is to paddle in it of the low words of lovers who have walked by its side in the moonlight of the tears of the poor Hagars of the world who have drunk from it would choke a satirist