THE WELL AND THE TREE
‘ The Man that I praise,’
Cries out the empty well,
‘ Lives all his days
Where a hand on the bell
Can call the milch-cows
To the comfortable door of his house.
Who but an idiot would praise
Dry stones in a well?’
‘ The Man that I praise,’
Cries out the leafless tree,
‘ Has married and stays
By an old hearth, and he
On naught has set store
But children and dogs on the floor.
Who but an idiot would praise
A withered tree?’