The beat of hoofs, the mill-wheel grinding round,
The anvil's note on summer breezes borne,
The sickle's sweep in fields of yellow corn.
And I too, as the hours go softly by,
Lie and forget, and yield to sleep's behest,
Leave for a space the world without a sigh,
And pass through silence into dreamless rest;
Like a tired swimmer floating tranquilly
Full in the tide upon a peaceful sea.
But hark, that sound! Again and yet again!