O wind, a-blowing all day long,

O wind, that sings so loud a song!

XXVI

KEEPSAKE MILL

Over the borders, a sin without pardon,

Over

Breaking the branches and crawling below,

Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,

Down by the banks of the river, we go.

Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,

Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,

Here is the sluice with the race running under—

Marvellous places, though handy to home!

Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,

Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;

Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,

Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.

18

18

Years may go by, and the wheel in the river,

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