The miller leaned o'er the oaken door,
Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor,
The spider toiled in the dust o'erhead,
With restless haste, and noiseless speed,
Like one who toils for sorest need—
Like one who toils for bread.
'Ha!' says the miller, 'does he pause to hark—
Hark! Hark! Hark!
To the voice of the waters, down in the dark—
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel;
Which moans and groans as tho't could feel?'
'Ha!' laughed the miller, 'he pauses not and why—
In the sunshine pausing and musing I?
When the spiteful waves seem to repeat—
Repeat! Repeat! Repeat!
The hateful word deceit—
Deceit! Deceit! Deceit'
'Nay,' mused the miller, 'their musical drip—
Drip! Drip! Drip!
Is like to naught but the trip—
Trip! Trip! Trip!
In the dance of her fairy feet,
Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!'

^^^^^^^^

Once more,
The miller leans o'er the oaken door.
Still play the shadows upon the floor,
Still toils the spider overhead;
Like one who toils for daily bread—
'Since the red lips unto me have lied
The spell hath lost its power,
For never a false heart brings my bride
Whatever else her dower!'
And louder yet the waves repeat
Their burthen old, deceit, deceit!

^^^^^^^^

In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down,
And floods, in the wild March weather;
While the mill, the miller, and the miller's love dream,
Have all grown old together!