How dear to my heart are cylindrical wedges,
when fond recollection presents them once more,
and boxes from tin by upturning the edges,
and ships landing passengers where on the shore.
The ladder that slid in its slanting projection,
the beam in the corridor rounding the ell,
but rarest of all in that antique collection
the leaky old bucket that hung in the well–
the leaky old bucket, the squeaky old bucket,
the leaky old bucket that hung in the well.
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