 | Poems |  |
38
Near a Windmill
Slow wheel the latticed swifts, without a sound!The Winds, that have the harvest in their care,
The furrow fan, in folded clouds prepare
The scented rain, then push these sails around;
They have more mastery of the mutinous ground
Than has the Sun himself; whom, if he dare
Challenge their will, they seize with vaporous air,
And cast into their dripping dungeon, bound.
Invisible, but resolute and fleet,
They flaw the river and the grassy plain
With pressure of imperishable feet,
Hasting impetuously to grind the grain,
To fill the poor man's basket and ordain
The cradle and the birth of next year's wheat.
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