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—SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
