The Windmill

The green corn waving in the dale, The ripe grass waving on the hill: I lean across the paddock pale And gaze upon the giddy mill.

Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound Each strikes in fury down the steep, Rattles, and whirls in chase around.

Beside his sacks the miller stands On high within the open door: A book and pencil in his hands, His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er.

His tireless merry slave the wind Is busy with his work to-day: From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind; He hath a will and knows the way.

He gives the creaking sails a spin, The circling millstones faster flee, The shuddering timbers groan within, And down the shoot the meal runs free.

The miller giveth him no thanks, And doth not much his work o'erlook: He stands beside the sacks, and ranks The figures in his dusty book.

14

When June is come, then all the day I'll sit with my love in the scented hay: And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home. O life is delight when June is come.

15

The pinks along my garden walks Have all shot forth their summer stalks, Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot, And blue forget-me-not.

Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soon Will lade the idle breath of June: And waken thro' the fragrant night To steal the pale moonlight.

The nightingale at end of May Lingers each year for their display; Till when he sees their blossoms blown, He knows the spring is flown.

June's birth they greet, and when their bloom Dislustres, withering on his tomb, Then summer hath a shortening day; And steps slow to decay.

16

Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow Pierces the veil of timeless night: Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow Their floods to a beam of gentle light, To charm with a moon-ray quenched from fire The land of delight, the land of desire!

Smile of love, a flower planted, Sprung in the garden of joy that art: Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted, Whose spreading fires encircle my heart, And warm with a noon-ray drenched in fire My land of delight, my land of desire!

17

The idle life I lead Is like a pleasant sleep, Wherein I rest and heed The dreams that by me sweep.

And still of all my dreams In turn so swiftly past, Each in its fancy seems A nobler than the last.

And every eve I say, Noting my step in bliss, That I have known no day In all my life like this.

18

Angel spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scattered dream:

Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and grassy shore With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light?

19