The Water-Mill
From the lone blue hills afar,
Where the sunset lingers long,
And the shepherd's folding star
Lark-like hangs in crystal song;
From the hills so blue and lone,
Where the magic pine-trees sway,
And the dumb grey boulder-stone
Dreams the centuries away;
Down the strath, and through the wood,
Past the farms, across the plain,
Runs the stream, a silvery flood,
Turns the wheel and grinds the grain;
Gathers colour, gathers tune,
From the haunts where it has strayed,
Morning, noon, and afternoon,
Pours them throbbing through the lade.
Passion-tinged, experience-rife,
Thus let Time's swift current roll,
Turning all the wheels of life—
So shalt thou have bread, my soul!
