Old Mill, grind me corn
For my house by the thorn,
For I’m with the old folk,
Where the pigs in the poke
And the cows in the barn
And the peat’s on the stone
And the latchstring out-thrown....
Old Mill, grind me corn
For the winter morn.
OLD MILL
No grain can I grind thee, Modern Child,
My sails are tattered,
My grind stones scattered;
My cranks are riddled
With rust defiled ...
But I’ll turn you a dream,
A Grey-Town dream,
At which many have smiled
And been beguiled.
YOUTH
Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill,
Flaring there on your windy hill
With your rickety arms spread on the sky;
Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,
Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,
And the sailors home from the ranging deep
Turn me a dream, you strange old Mill,
Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
OLD MILL
Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier calling
His news ’gainst the tempest bawling?
Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailing
The rim of a low lying island hailing ...?
Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grim
And the underground path for his mates and him?
Of Three forms walking a midnight road
To a lonely farmhouse where one light showed
And a paper signed with a white quill pen
That helped bring freedom to slave-born men?
Of a man who made a telescope
And lassoed the stars with a mental rope—
Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,
Whose name in science leads them all?
Of a knight who came and built a school?
Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?
Of the Quaker forms and the gentle ways
That ruled all war out of the ways?
Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?
Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
YOUTH
Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face;
Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,
Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,
Turn me a dream for my own tense days,
Turn me a dream for my cherishing—
A dream for believing;
A dream for my strength!
OLD MILL