A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."
The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main,
The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain;
The rippling stream flows on, aye tranquil, deep, and still,
But never glideth back again to busy water-mill.
The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."
Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,
For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing, too;