THE OLD MILL WHEEL.
The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns
Throughout the livelong day,
And flings the current of the stream,
Abroad in glist'ning spray:
That old, black wheel has turn'd for years,
Beside the mossy mill,
That stands, like some old, sacred thing,
Beneath the clay-red hill.
The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns
Like time's unresting one,
Which day and night, and night and day,
Hath never ceased to run:
The old mill-wheel, an emblem true,
Of Time that ne'er stands still,
I love to see it turning so,
Beside the mossy mill.
The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns,
As in my childhood's hour;—
As when I bathed beneath its rim,
In its refreshing shower:
But they who were my comrades then,
Are sleeping on the hill,
And now, to them, forever now,
The old Mill-wheel stands still.