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: