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 --
