The Mill-Water

ONLY the sound remains Of the old mill; Gone is the wheel; On the prone roof and walls the nettle reigns.

Water that toils no more Dangles white locks And, falling, mocks The music of the mill-wheel's busy roar.

Pretty to see, by day Its sound is naught Compared with thought And talk and noise of labour and of play.

Night makes the difference. In calm moonlight, Gloom infinite, The sound comes surging in upon the sense:

Solitude, company,-- When it is night,-- Grief or delight By it must haunted or concluded be.

Often the silentness Has but this one Companion; Wherever one creeps in the other is:

Sometimes a thought is drowned By it, sometimes Out of it climbs; All thoughts begin or end upon this sound,

Only the idle foam Of water falling Changelessly calling, Where once men had a work-place and a home.