Up on a mountain in Vermont tonight,

Under a green bush now the sand runs white

In a spring I drank from, cold and clean and clear,

And every night, though nobody comes near.

There were other springs. Climbing, I drank at three,

And two were dark and still, and the water good.

But the third was alive. It pushed sand to be free,

To flow in sunlight down away through the wood.

Keeping it secret would not help it hide.

It was always up there giving itself away.

I drank both hands full dripping, too small a cup

For thirst I thought might never be satisfied.

I drank the word the mountain had to say,

And drank, and could not use the water up.