The empty pitcher to the pool
She bore in listless mood:
In haste she turned; the pitcher full
Beside the water stood.
To her was heard the age’s prayer:
He sat upon the brink;
Weary beside the waters fair,
And yet He could not drink.
He begged her help. The woman’s hand
Was ready to reply;
From out the old well of the land
She drew Him plenteously.
He spake as never man before;
She stands with open ears;
He spoke of holy days in store,
Laid bare the vanished years.
She cannot grapple with her heart,
Till, in the city’s bound,
She cries, to ease the joy-born smart,
“I have the Master found.”
Her life before was strange and sad;
Its tale a dreary sound:
Ah! let it go–or good or bad,
She has the Master found.