Kettle Song
The worry and low murmur
Of the black kettle are set
Against my unquiet achings
And vanish, so strong is the fret.
Such tangles and evil-skeined fibres
Of living so matted are grown
That water-song is hardly noticed
For all its past comfortings known.
Of the black kettle are set
Against my unquiet achings
And vanish, so strong is the fret.
Such tangles and evil-skeined fibres
Of living so matted are grown
That water-song is hardly noticed
For all its past comfortings known.
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