Myth and Romance - Being a Book of Verses by Madison Julius Cawein
page 19 of 119 (15%)
page 19 of 119 (15%)
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Steamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night,
And all the snow was streaked with firelight. Then it was glorious! the mill-dam's edge, One slant of frosty crystal, laid a ledge Of pearl across; above which, sleeted trees Tossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze, Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles, Thin as the peal of Elfland's Sabbath bells: A sound that in my city dreams I hear, That brings before me, under skies that clear, The old mill in its winter garb of snow, Its frozen wheel, a great hoar beard below, And its West windows, two deep eyes aglow. Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'er Thy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor; Thy door,--like some brown, honest hand of toil, And honorable with labor of the soil,-- Forever open; through which, on his back The prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack. And while the miller measures out his toll, Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,-- That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,-- The harmless gossip of the passing day: Good country talk, that tells how so-and-so Has died or married; how curculio And codling-moth have ruined half the fruit, And blight plays mischief with the grapes to boot; Or what the news from town; next county fair; How well the crops are looking everywhere: |
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