The Spouts

I HEARD the spouts begin to cry As I came over the hill; How could they know the poignant thing That I had kept so still?

Like to the gold in a king’s house, Like to that gold there shone Seven wet small windows, and as one Stared me down to the bone.

And there was not in all the world A place for me to hide From the hurt music of that cry: Oh, if I had but died!