THE OLD WATER MILL

'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill,

But holiday with me,

For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill

And heard the voice of the happy rill,

The miller's beautiful child was there

That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair

And smile of witchery;

And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,

Told in their ecstacy

That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil,

Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill.

Together we cross the moss-covered log

That spans the old mill race,

And we hear through the mists and rising fog

The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog,

That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream,

The violet tranced in her winter dream,

Where lights and shadows lace;

And the cowslip, like the meteor's gleam,

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