Lonely by Miami stream,
Gray in twilight’s fading beam,
Spectral, desolate and still,
Smitten by the storms of years,
Ah! how changed to me appears
Yonder long-deserted mill.
While the ruin I behold,
Mossy roof and gable old,
Shadowy mid obscuring trees,
Memory’s vision, quick and true,
Time’s long vista gazing through,
Unseen pictures dimly sees.
Sees upon the garner floor
Wheat and maize in golden store,—
Powdery whiteness everywhere,—
Sees a miller short and stout
Whistling cheerfully about,
Making merry with his care.
Pleased, he listens to the whirr
Of the swift-revolving burr,
Deeming brief each busy hour;
Like a stream of finest snow,
Sifting to the bin below,
Fall the tiny flakes of flour.
Once my childish feet were led
Down some furtive way of dread,
Through yon broken floor to peer,
Where the fearful waters drift
In a current dark and swift,
Flying from the angry weir.
Once, with timid step and soft,
Stealthily I climbed aloft,
Up and up the highest stair;—
Iron cogs were rumbling round,
Every vague and awful sound
Mocked and mumbled at me there.
Wonder if those wheels remain,
And would frighten me again?
Wonder if the miller’s dead?
Wonder if his ghost at night
Haunts the stairs, a phantom white?
Walks the loft with hollow tread?
Spectral, desolate and still,
Stands the solitary mill,
Close beside the gliding stream:
Darkness overtakes the sun,
Suddenly the day is done,
And of Time and Death I dream.