How dear to my heart are the days of my childhood, <br />When fond recollection presents to my view <br />The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, <br />And ev'ry lov'd spot which my infancy knew; <br />The wide spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it; <br />The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell, <br />The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, <br />And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well- <br />The old oaken bucket, <br />The iron bound the bucket, <br />The moss covered bucket that hung in the well. <br /> <br /> <br />That moss covered bucket I hail as a treasure; <br />For often at noon, when return'd from the field, <br />I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, <br />The purest and sweetest that nature could yield. <br />How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, <br />And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell; <br />Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, <br />And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well. <br />The old oaken bucket, <br />The iron bound bucket, <br />The moss covered bucket arose from the well. <br /> <br /> <br />How sweet from the green mossy rim to receive it, <br />As pois'd on the curb it inclined to my lips; <br />Not a full flowing goblet could tempt me to leave it, <br />Tho' filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. <br />And now, far removed from that situation, <br />The tear of regret will intrusively swell, <br />As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, <br />And sighs for the bucket which hung in the well. <br />The old oaken bucket, <br />The iron bound bucket, <br />The moss covered bucket that hung in the well.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-oaken-bucket/
