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Title: The Old Water Mill
Author: Cotton Noe [
More Titles by Noe]
'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill,
But holiday with me,
For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill
And heard the voice of the happy rill,
The miller's beautiful child was there
That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair
And smile of witchery;
And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,
Told in their ecstacy
That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil,
Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill.
Together we cross the moss-covered log
That spans the old mill race,
And we hear through the mists and rising fog
The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog,
That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream,
The violet tranced in her winter dream,
Where lights and shadows lace;
And the cowslip, like the meteor's gleam,
Darts from her hiding-place,
While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill
The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill.
We sit by the dam of the placid stream
And watch the whirl and churn
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,
While steadily rolls the dripping wheel
That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,
Who restless wait their turn;
But the lights in the miller's face reveal
Never the least concern,
Who takes his toll, and whistles until
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.
To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill
Had stood in the long ago,
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,
And the boom of the roaring dam is still,
For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,
When the ruthless hand of Art passed by
And laid the Old Mill low;
And the violets, cold in death, now lie
Wrapped in the glistening snow;
And the biting air is crisp and chill
Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill.
And now we sit by the River of Time
And gaze at the waves below,
But its brink is covered by frost and rime,
And we hear on the wind a muffled chime
Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn:
Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn
As the currents ebb and flow:--
By the rolling wheel we wait our turn
Calm, but ready to go!
The hopper is drained, but unmoved still,
The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill.
[The end]
Cotton Noe's poem: Old Water Mill
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