THE
WINDMILL
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Behold!
a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.
I look
down over the farms;
In the fields the grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.
I hear
the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing floors
In barns, With their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.
I
stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.
And
while we wrestle and strive,
My master the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.
On
Sundays I take a rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, Melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.