The Windmill
Behold! a giant am I!Aloft here in my tower,With my granite jaws I devourThe maize, and the wheat, and the rye,And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms;In the fields of grain I seeThe harvest that is to be,And I fling to the air my arms,For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flailsFar off, from the threshing-floorsIn barns, with their open doors,And the wind, the wind in my sails,Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place,With my foot on the rock below,And whichever way it may blowI meet it face to face,As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and striveMy master, the miller, standsAnd feeds me with his hands;For he knows who makes him thrive,Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest;Church-going bells beginTheir low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast,And all is peace within.
Words in this poem
- whichever pron.
- Whether one or another; whether one or the other; which; that one (of two or more) which; as, whichever road you take, it will lead you to town.
- wrestle v. i.
- To contend, by grappling with, and striving to trip or throw down, an opponent; as, they wrestled skillfully. [OE. wrestlen, wrastlen, AS. wr, freq. of wr to wrest; akin to OD. wrastelen to wrestle. See Wrest, v. t.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Windmill is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project Gutenberg ebook #1365; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Windmill, in The Complete Poetical Works (1839–1882), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1365, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-poems/the-windmill.html, id L17808.
Form and metre
The Windmill is 30 lines in 6 stanzas of 5 lines each. Every stanza rhymes ABBAB. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 83%). 94% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.0 syllables. 3 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 27% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABBAB iA · towerB · devourB · ryeA · flourB
- 2 ABBAB farmsA · seeB · beB · armsA · meB
- 3 ABBAB flailsA · floorsB · doorsB · sailsA · roarsB
- 4 ABBAB placeA · belowB · blowB · faceA · foeB
- 5 ABBAB striveA · standsB · handsB · thriveA · landsB
- 6 ABBAB restA · beginB · dinB · breastA · withinB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Behold! a giant am I! | 7 | ˘/·/˘·· |
| Aloft here in my tower, | 7 | ˘/···/˘ |
| With my granite jaws I devour | 9 | ··/˘··˘/˘ |
| The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, | 8 | ········ |
| And grind them into flour. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| I look down over the farms; | 7 | ······· |
| In the fields of grain I see | 7 | ······· |
| The harvest that is to be, | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| And I fling to the air my arms, | 8 | ········ |
| For I know it is all for me. | 8 | ········ |
| I hear the sound of flails | 6 | ······ |
| Far off, from the threshing-floors | 7 | ····/˘· |
| In barns, with their open doors, | 7 | ····/˘· |
| And the wind, the wind in my sails, | 8 | ········ |
| Louder and louder roars. | 6 | /˘·/˘· |
| I stand here in my place, | 6 | ······ |
| With my foot on the rock below, | 8 | ········ |
| And whichever way it may blow | 8 | ·˘/˘···· |
| I meet it face to face, | 6 | ······ |
| As a brave man meets his foe. | 7 | ······· |
| And while we wrestle and strive | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| My master, the miller, stands | 7 | ·/˘·/˘· |
| And feeds me with his hands; | 6 | ······ |
| For he knows who makes him thrive, | 7 | ······· |
| Who makes him lord of lands. | 6 | ······ |
| On Sundays I take my rest; | 7 | ·/····· |
| Church-going bells begin | 6 | ·/˘·˘/ |
| Their low, melodious din; | 7 | ··˘/˘˘· |
| I cross my arms on my breast, | 7 | ······· |
| And all is peace within. | 6 | ······ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.