LUBBER BREEZE

The four sails of the mill

Like stocks stand still;

Their lantern-length is white

On blue more bright.

Unruffled is the mead,

Where lambkins feed

And sheep and cattle browse

And donkeys drowse.

Never the least breeze will

The wet thumb chill

That the anxious miller lifts,

Till the vane shifts.

The breeze in the great flour-bin

Is snug tucked in;

The lubber, while rats thieve,

Laughs in his sleeve.

T. Sturge Moore