Classic Poem

The Deevlesh waters by their brink
Of lowland meadow slowly run,
And come down here at last to sink
Within the Stour, of two streams one,
To flow all day where flows the Stour,
To go all day where goes the Stour.

To run the same, in size of stream,
Though by its name no longer known;
To turn the mill's slow rolling beam,
And whirl around the meally stone,
And wind all day where winds the Stour,
And grind all day where grinds the Stour.

So you, through former times are brought,
To blend with mine your hopeful day,
And lose your name, to all but thought,
And take in mine my unknown way,
Still sad all day when I am sad,
And glad all day when I am glad.