 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE RUINED MILL.
Alone and roofless thing it stands
In sunshine and in shower,
Stretching abroad its palsied hands,
A wreck of giant power;
Each mouldering beam and crumbling stone
With velvet moss is now o'ergrown,
While many a wind-sown flower
Is peeping through the broken floor,
Seeking the place it held of yore.
In sunshine and in shower,
Stretching abroad its palsied hands,
A wreck of giant power;
Each mouldering beam and crumbling stone
With velvet moss is now o'ergrown,
While many a wind-sown flower
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Seeking the place it held of yore.
The bright-eyed toad looks fearless out,
And newts to covert steal,
While the spider weaves his web about
The cogs of the massive wheel;
And where the miller once gayly stood
The adder rears her hissing brood,
Nor fears his iron heel;
Man's rule within the place is o'er,
And Nature wins her own once more.
And newts to covert steal,
While the spider weaves his web about
The cogs of the massive wheel;
And where the miller once gayly stood
The adder rears her hissing brood,
Nor fears his iron heel;
Man's rule within the place is o'er,
And Nature wins her own once more.
O'er the broken dam the brook leaps free,
And speeds on its course along,
Wooing the wild flowers daintily
With its smiles and pleasant song;
No longer chained to the busy mill,
It wanders on at its own sweet will,
The hoary rocks among,
Then creeps around the old tree's foot,
To brighten the moss on its gnarled root.
And speeds on its course along,
Wooing the wild flowers daintily
With its smiles and pleasant song;
No longer chained to the busy mill,
It wanders on at its own sweet will,
The hoary rocks among,
Then creeps around the old tree's foot,
To brighten the moss on its gnarled root.
I sate me on a gray old stone
And watched the lapsing stream,
Till outward things before me shone
Like pictures in a dream;
Amid the mists of reverie,
I rather seemed to feel than see
Earth's bright and sunny gleam;
Once more the angel of my youth
Touched all things with a sweeter truth.
And watched the lapsing stream,
Till outward things before me shone
Like pictures in a dream;
Amid the mists of reverie,
I rather seemed to feel than see
Earth's bright and sunny gleam;
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Touched all things with a sweeter truth.
That bright ideal! O, how well
My spirit knew its power,
For early had I learned its spell
In childhood's sunny hour;
It gave new glory to the skies,
New music to earth's melodies,
New charms to every flower;
But rarely now the gentle sprite
Awakes me to such deep delight.
My spirit knew its power,
For early had I learned its spell
In childhood's sunny hour;
It gave new glory to the skies,
New music to earth's melodies,
New charms to every flower;
But rarely now the gentle sprite
Awakes me to such deep delight.
Yet there, in that secluded spot,
Beside the ruined mill,
Came back the fancies, long forgot,
Which fain would haunt me still;
That stream an image seemed to be
Of mine own gushing poesy,
Wasted with wanton will,
Without concentrate power to sway
A leaflet on its loitering way.
Beside the ruined mill,
Came back the fancies, long forgot,
Which fain would haunt me still;
That stream an image seemed to be
Of mine own gushing poesy,
Wasted with wanton will,
Without concentrate power to sway
A leaflet on its loitering way.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |