 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
180
THE MILL-WHEEL
Turn, mill-wheel, solemnly turn,
Under the gable fringed with fern;
Run, swift freshet, steadily run,
Filling the black lips one by one;
Under the gable fringed with fern;
Run, swift freshet, steadily run,
Filling the black lips one by one;
Toss and gurgle thy waters cool,
Ere thou splash in the moss-lined pool;
Hark how the loud gear sullenly groans,
Whirling, whirling the patient stones!
Ere thou splash in the moss-lined pool;
Hark how the loud gear sullenly groans,
Whirling, whirling the patient stones!
Haste thee, rivulet, haste away,
All that we ask thou hast done to-day;
Cease, O streamlet, thy chiding sound,
Hence! forget thou wast ever bound;
All that we ask thou hast done to-day;
Cease, O streamlet, thy chiding sound,
Hence! forget thou wast ever bound;
Leap and linger with fitful gleam,
Till thou plunge in the brimming stream;
Thine to wander, and thine to be
Merged at length in the monstrous sea.
Till thou plunge in the brimming stream;
Thine to wander, and thine to be
Merged at length in the monstrous sea.
Only forget not, there at play,
How in the valley, day by day,
Under the gable fringed with ferns,
Black and solemn the mill-wheel turns!
How in the valley, day by day,
Under the gable fringed with ferns,
Black and solemn the mill-wheel turns!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |