Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs br Always wrong to the light, so never seeing br Deeper down in the well than where the water br Gives me back in a shining surface picture br My myself in the summer heaven, godlike br Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. br Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, br I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, br Through the picture, a something white, uncertain, br Something more of the depths—and then I lost it. br Water came to rebuke the too clear water. br One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple br Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, br Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? br Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.