The Old Mill

I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill,

It still recalls my boyish prime;
'Tis changed since then, and so am I,

We both have known the touch of time:
The mill is crumbling in decay,
And I — my hair is early gray.

I stand beside the stream of Life,
And watch the current sweep along:

And when the flood-gates of my heart
Are raised it turns the wheel of Song:

But scant, as yet, the harvest brought

From out the golden fields of Thought!

Richard Henry Stoddard.