THE WAY-SIDE WELL
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Fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s endbeckons me on. It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary whena heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread? It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end isfood for my being. I will question the well for my secret by droppinga pebble into it. Ah, it is dry. Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for heartsare like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til youquestion their depths. Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints misstheir crown.
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