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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!