The Fountain and the Dying Man

A dying man stretched out his withered hand,
His pallid, sunken frame sprawled on the ground,
And craving water though none could be found,
He pressed his thirsty lips into the sand.
Inhaling all he might of sun-scorched land,
The man did hope to quench his thirst profound.
Not able to, he wept without a sound,
His body heaving, no strength left to stand.
Then suddenly a rumbling split the air.
He lifted up his eyes to catch the sight.
A rushing, surging fountain, cool and fair,
Exploded near the man; its waters white.
Benighted by his thirst, he could but stare
And turned his face in acquiescent spite.