54816: The Mill-Water

<p dir="ltr"> Only the sound remains<br> Of the old mill;<br> Gone is the wheel;<br> On the prone roof and walls the nettle reigns.<br> Water that toils no more<br> Dangles white locks<br> And, falling, mocks<br> The music of the mill-wheel's busy roar.<br> Pretty to see, by day<br> Its sound is naught<br> Compared with thought<br> And talk and noise of labour and of play.<br> Night makes the difference.<br> In calm moonlight,<br> Gloom infinite,<br> The sound comes surging in upon the sense:<br> Solitude, company,---<br> When it is night,---<br> Grief or delight<br> By it must haunted or concluded be.<br> Often the silentness<br> Has but this one<br> Companion;<br> Wherever one creeps in the other is:<br> Sometimes a thought is drowned<br> By it, sometimes<br> Out of it climbs;<br> All thoughts begin or end upon this sound,<br> Only the idle foam<br> Of water falling<br> Changelessly calling,<br> Where once men had a work-place and a home.<br></p>