'Tis rushing now adown the spout,
And gushing out below,
Half frantic in its joyousness,
read more

'Tis rushing now adown the spout,
And gushing out below,
Half frantic in its joyousness,
And wild in eager flow.
The earth is dried and parched with heat,
And it hath long'd to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,
To cool the thirsty tree.

The deeper the waters are, the more still they run.

The deeper the waters are, the more still they run.

Water is the only drink for a wise man.

Water is the only drink for a wise man.

It is the calm and silent water that drowns a man.

It is the calm and silent water that drowns a man.

Water which is too pure has no fish

Water which is too pure has no fish

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through
it. The river was cut by the world's read more

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through
it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over
rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are
timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of
the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.

O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
read more

O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks;
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea:
Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep
And mocked the dead bones that lay scatt'red by.

It is wretched business to be digging a well just as thirst is
mastering you.
[Lat., Miserum est read more

It is wretched business to be digging a well just as thirst is
mastering you.
[Lat., Miserum est opus,
Igitur demum fodere puteum, ubi sitis fauces tedet.]

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view.
read more

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view.
. . . .
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.