The Old Mill Wheel

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns Throughout the livelong day, And flings the current of the stream, Abroad in glist'ning spray: That old, black wheel has turn'd for years, Beside the mossy mill, That stands, like some old, sacred thing, Beneath the clay-red hill.

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns Like time's unresting one, Which day and night, and night and day, Hath never ceased to run: The old mill-wheel, an emblem true, Of Time that ne'er stands still, I love to see it turning so, Beside the mossy mill.

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns, As in my childhood's hour;— As when I bathed beneath its rim, In its refreshing shower: But they who were my comrades then, Are sleeping on the hill, And now, to them, forever now, The old Mill-wheel stands still.