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Wilde, George James de: The Water-Mill
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The Water-Mill

There; - it may serve perhaps some future day,
Dull though the pencil be, and duller he
Who guides it, to recall to memory
The exquisite beauties of this rural way,

Tempting the hurried traveller to delay: -
The mill down in the dell; the huge beech-tree
Flinging its great black arms protectingly
Over the useful stream, with one hot ray

From Autumn’s cloudless sky touched, like a star;
The feathery greenery sheltering everywhere;
The one bright strip of greenward seen afar

Between the mossy trunks. – May never care
Come to the Mill, its clattering glee to mar,
Making all foul within, while all around is fair.
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