There still sleep secret sacred springs
Fed by streams from porous rock,
By dreams of dozing huntress nymphs.
Their arrows aren’t aimed at wings,
But men who would touch key to lock
Of their delicately draped limbs.
While a short walk from the old town
The spring is seldom discovered
By hunter or would-be lover,
Or princess in her silken gown.
Unnatural havoc attends
Disturbing of the nymph at rest.
The springs boil and mists ascend
To poison the unwanted guest.
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