Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
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.

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    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz

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