And here at hand an open mill,

Strong clamor at perpetual drive,

With changing chant, now hoarse, now shrill,

Keeps dinning like a mighty hive.

A furnace over field and mead,

The rounding noon hangs hard and white;

Into the gathering heats recede

The hollows of the Chelsea height;

But under all to one quiet tune,

A spirit in cool depths withdrawn,

With logs, and dust, and wrack bestrewn,

The stately river journeys on.

I watch the swinging currents go

Far down to where, enclosed and piled,

The logs crowd, and the Gatineau

Comes rushing from the northern wild.

I see the long low point, where close

The shore-lines, and the waters end,

I watch the barges pass in rows

That vanish at the tapering bend.

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