Classic Poem

Hearken the bluster and brag of the Mill!
The heart of the Mill am I,
Doomed to toil in the dark until
The springs of the world run dry;
With never a ray of sun to cheer
And never a star for lamp!
It cries its song in the great World's ear—
I toil in the dark and damp.

And ever the storm-clouds cast their showers
And the brook laughs loud in the sun,
To goad me on through the dizzy hours
That the will of the Mill be done!
And that is why I groan at work;
For deep down under the flood I lurk
Where the icy midnight lingers:
While tinkle, tinkle the waters play
Through starless night and sunless day—
All with their crystal fingers.

O, the waters have such a rollicking way
And they taunt me in my pain;
“'Tis thou alone art sad,” they say,
“Thy rusty whine is vain:
For the grass is green and the skies are blue
And a fisherman whistled, as we came through,
A careless merry tune;
And a bevy of boys were out with their noise
In our flood made warm with June!”

And, bound as I am where the darkness lingers,
I half forgive their careless way,
Such soothing, tinkling tunes they play—
All with their icy fingers.