Your heart it is a wishing-well:
In moss-clad stone, its glory dimmed,
And summer-even smell.
So deep and cool echoes my prayer
And coin-splash far below,
I doubt even the spiders know
The hope I buried there.
Time slumbers or, web-caught as I,
Gives over bootless strife;
Fixed, palsied, stained with flowing life,
In dumbness waits to die.
But should sharp winter come, and rime
Begem the bucket-rope,
Who knows but sunk and frozen hope
May snap and waken time?