The spring-head bubbled forth,
and ran in two separate streams.
One, sparkling, swift and cold:
the fount of eternal youth.
The other, unthinkably clear and deep:
the fount of age-old wisdom.
He was brought here by the elders,
and told he could drink from one alone.

Which would you choose?

He took the ancient wooden bowl,
dipped it into the second pool
and drank his fill;
saw with clarity and depth.

That day he became a poet,
using the gift of the second fount
to drink from the first every day.