The Windmill

The green corn waving in the dale,The ripe grass waving on the hill:I lean across the paddock paleAnd gaze upon the giddy mill.

Its hurtling sails a mighty sweepCut thro' the air: with rushing soundEach strikes in fury down the steep,Rattles, and whirls in chase around.

Beside his sacks the miller standsOn high within the open door:A book and pencil in his hands,His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er.

His tireless merry slave the windIs busy with his work to-day:From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind;He hath a will and knows the way.

He gives the creaking sails a spin,The circling millstones faster flee,The shuddering timbers groan within,And down the shoot the meal runs free.

The miller giveth him no thanks,And doth not much his work o'erlook:He stands beside the sacks, and ranksThe figures in his dusty book.

When June is come, then all the dayI'll sit with my love in the scented hay:And watch the sunshot palaces high,That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song,And read sweet poems the whole day long:Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home.O life is delight when June is come.

The pinks along my garden walksHave all shot forth their summer stalks,Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot,And blue forget-me-not.

Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soonWill lade the idle breath of June:And waken thro' the fragrant nightTo steal the pale moonlight.

The nightingale at end of MayLingers each year for their display;Till when he sees their blossoms blown,He knows the spring is flown.

June's birth they greet, and when their bloomDislustres, withering on his tomb,Then summer hath a shortening day;And steps slow to decay.

Fire of heaven, whose starry arrowPierces the veil of timeless night:Molten spheres, whose tempests narrowTheir floods to a beam of gentle light,To charm with a moon-ray quenched from fireThe land of delight, the land of desire!

Smile of love, a flower planted,Sprung in the garden of joy that art:Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted,Whose spreading fires encircle my heart,And warm with a noon-ray drenched in fireMy land of delight, my land of desire!

The idle life I leadIs like a pleasant sleep,Wherein I rest and heedThe dreams that by me sweep.

And still of all my dreamsIn turn so swiftly past,Each in its fancy seemsA nobler than the last.

And every eve I say,Noting my step in bliss,That I have known no dayIn all my life like this.

Angel spirits of sleep,White-robed, with silver hair,In your meadows fair,Where the willows weep,And the sad moonbeamOn the gliding streamWrites her scattered dream:

Angel spirits of sleep,Dancing to the weirIn the hollow roarOf its waters deep;Know ye how men sayThat ye haunt no moreIsle and grassy shoreWith your moonlit play;That ye dance not here,White-robed spirits of sleep,All the summer nightThreading dances light?