Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind me
A dream of my own I will surely find me!
But as Youth weaves and catches the threads
Of a hundred human joys and dreads,
Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,
High on the hill with the West aflare ...
And dark as it looms on the sky, it seems
The Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.
“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;
“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;
“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,
And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,
And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....
You shall walk straight over the rim of the years
To the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;
With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,
You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”
(But that’s all I know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
SCISSORS GRINDER.
“’Twas long ago” they said
Of the country whence I came,
“Greece is a dream that is dead,
Athens only a name!”
Yet on this April day
As I go through the towns,
I see soft Thessaly
On these New England downs.
I see the lilied plains
Where the white cranes droop their bills;
And the moving cattle trains
Winding into the hills;
While the farmer drums his bees,
And the donkey shakes his bells
Under the olive trees
Where the Bay of Corinth swells,
To great blue-silver gate
Where the sea-bound temples wait,
And the Eleusinian way
Mistily winds the bay.
On Knossos’ shady knolls
I see the columned tiers;
And the cool Ionic scrolls
Throb to Olympian cheers.
I see a gravelled stream
Winding Olympian reeds;
Again the Scythian dream
Its wagoned people leads.
The river-god drifts on,
Raising a poppied head;
A pipe sounds halcyon—
Nothing of Greece is dead ...!
But I, who walk the towns
To sharpen knives at the gate,
Feel sharper knives in the frown
Of this New World’s estimate!
WHISPERS.
What was it the wind said,
Blowing from the Orient
To the Cross on the hill,
And the fans of the Mill?
What was it the wind said,
Blowing at twilight,
To New England?
The wind that blew from the East
Blew dreamily,
A low song and strange song had the sea.
The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,
And young men dreamed enterprise;
Then sails put from the shores,
And wives stood alone at the doors;
For the old world, the strange world, called
To New England!
White sails stole out
On the silver sound,
They ran into storms
Outward bound;
They could not stay home
And they would not turn back,
For the Old World,
The dim world,
Called to New England!
Now, in the old house
Where the chimneys stretch wide,
Young wives talk by the fireside;
On the walls there is Delft,
And the lacquered trays,
Jades, teak and teapots,
Fans of gallant days;
China, tortoise and pearl,
Ivory carved like lace;
Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,
In some secret place....
And what say the young wives,
The frank young wives,
To the stranger’s face?