The Old Grist-Mill
by Richard Henry Stoddard�(1825�1903) |
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BESIDE the stream the grist-mill stands,
With bending
roof and leaning wall;
So old, that when the winds are
wild,
The miller trembles lest it fall:
And yet it
baffles wind and rain,
Our brave old Mill! and will
again.
Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds:
The
gates are up, the waters pour,
And tread the old wheel's
slippery round,
The lowest step forevermore.
Methinks
they fume, and chafe with ire,
Because they cannot climb
it higher.
From morn to night in autumn time,
When
harvests fill the neighboring plains,
Up to the mill the
farmers drive,
And back anon with loaded wains:
And
when the children come from school
They stop, and watch
its foamy pool.
The mill inside is small and dark;
But peeping in the open door
You see the miller flitting
round,
The dusty bags along the floor,
The whirling
shaft, the clattering spout,
And the yellow meal
a-pouring out!
All day the meal is floating there,
Rising and falling in the breeze;
And when the sunlight
strikes its mist
It glitters like a swarm of bees:
Or
like the cloud of smoke and light
Above a blacksmith's
forge at night.
I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill,
It still recalls my boyish prime;
'T is changed since
then, and so am I,
We both have known the touch of time:
The mill is crumbling in decay,
And I�my hair is early
gray.
I stand beside the stream of Life,
And watch
the current sweep along:
And when the flood-gates of my
heart
Are raised it turns the wheel of Song:
But
scant, as yet, the harvest brought
From out the golden
fields of Thought! |
By Richard Henry Stoddard�(1825�1903)
Listed April 18, 2014 |
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