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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-
