Classic Poem

Upon the hill above the town—
The old town pale and gray—
In other days went up and down
The country lasses gay.
Below the humming mills it shone,
Across the fields of flowers,
The city, dreamlike, far away,—
The island, stream and towers.

The merry mills were going,
The country winds were blowing,
And brave the miller sings;
“Bring in, bring in your yellow grain,
My weight is never light;
(Oh tall my mill and swift her wings!)
Bring in, bring in your yellow grain
And I will give you white.
White is my hopper for your grist,
My mill-stones you may trust:
Bring in your harvest when you list
And I will give you dust.”

Upon the hill above the town
They grind the corn no more;
The girls go tripping up and down
From idle door to door.
The nights are terrible with mirth.
The days ashamed for song;
Against the sky the crimson sails
Turn all the night-time long.

The merry mills are going,
The country winds are blowing
And brave the miller sings:
“Bring in, bring in your yellow grain,
My weight is never light;
(Oh tall my mill and swift her wings!)
Bring in, bring in your yellow grain,
And I will give you white.
Wide is my hopper for your grist,
My mill-stones you may trust:
Bring in your harvest when you list,
And I will give you dust.”