13THE WINDMILLThe 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.
13THE WINDMILLThe 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.
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.
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.
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.
The green corn waving in the dale,
The ripe grass waving on the hill:
I lean across the paddock pale
And 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.
Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep
Cut thro’ the air: with rushing sound
Each 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.
Beside his sacks the miller stands
On 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.
His tireless merry slave the wind
Is 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.
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.
The miller giveth him no thanks,
And doth not much his work o’erlook:
He stands beside the sacks, and ranks
The figures in his dusty book.