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:

Now this, now that, on which their interests fix,

Prospects for rain or frost, and politics.

While, all around, the sweet smell of the meal

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