Poetry Archives

460

I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells—
Deep dug—for Summer days—
Where Mosses go no more away—
And Pebble—safely plays—

It’s made of Fathoms—and a Belt—
A Belt of jagged Stone—
Inlaid with Emerald—half way down—
And Diamonds—jumbled on—

It has no Bucket—Were I rich
A Bucket I would buy—
I’m often thirsty—but my lips
Are so high up—You see—

I read in an Old fashioned Book
That People “thirst no more”—
The Wells have Buckets to them there—
It must mean that—I’m sure—

Shall We remember Parching—then?
Those Waters sound so grand—
I think a little Well—like Mine—
Dearer to understand—