ATKINSON'S MILL
THIS river of azure with many a weed inComes far from the past as those famous of old;Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,And still it remembers their crimson and gold.As vivid this valley with forests around it,And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it—The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill.This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;Departed are those who once made it a pleasureTo sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.This pathway through cedar is trampled no longerBy feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will;The fragrance of hope in the springtime is strongerAnd sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill.No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful waterTo burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perishLike hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill.
THIS river of azure with many a weed inComes far from the past as those famous of old;Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,And still it remembers their crimson and gold.As vivid this valley with forests around it,And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it—The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill.This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;Departed are those who once made it a pleasureTo sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.This pathway through cedar is trampled no longerBy feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will;The fragrance of hope in the springtime is strongerAnd sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill.No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful waterTo burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perishLike hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill.
THIS river of azure with many a weed inComes far from the past as those famous of old;Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,And still it remembers their crimson and gold.As vivid this valley with forests around it,And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it—The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill.
THIS river of azure with many a weed in
Comes far from the past as those famous of old;
Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,
And still it remembers their crimson and gold.
As vivid this valley with forests around it,
And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,
But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it—
The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill.
This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;Departed are those who once made it a pleasureTo sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.This pathway through cedar is trampled no longerBy feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will;The fragrance of hope in the springtime is strongerAnd sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill.
This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,
Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;
Departed are those who once made it a pleasure
To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.
This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer
By feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will;
The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger
And sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill.
No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful waterTo burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perishLike hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill.
No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,
No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,
Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water
To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.
The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,
The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,
Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish
Like hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill.