Empty Wells

     The well is empty.  Toll the bell.
     Turn the handle slowly
     As though the bucket were full.
     Listen to the windlass creak
     While the rope embraces the dusty rounds.

     Lift the bucket from the dark hole
     And set it on the stone surround.
     Dip your fingers deep within
     And pull them slowly out
     Yielding not to the impatience of youth.

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