And the stars their sweet stories impart,
That this mill unto me in a strange undertone
Is speaking as heart unto heart.
That it bids me look into the granary room
Where the yellow wheat is packed;
And anon to glance in with the sundown’s bloom
Where the snowy flour is sacked,
So I look—and it seems in the deepening gloom
There clouds upon clouds are stacked.
What else do I scan through the moonlight’s lace