Lost Legends Triptych: Sonnet I

Of youth the fountain Spaniards sought in vain,
its spurting plumes imagined, jets of froth,
crystalline showers of nourishing broth,
miraculous relief from age and pain.

Perhaps the font, difficult to obtain,
surged hidden from a swamp or barren swath.
Would it be wont to bathe bereft of cloth,
or only drops upon the tongue to rain?

The puzzle ground down into sterile loam.
The searchers were not used to giving up.
Had they but thought to make by hand the foam,

upon its form to ponder and to sup,
then youth had sprung from joyful font of bone,
its essence to imbibe from rustic cup.