The Old Millstone

I’ve long believed that when the night

Its veil of blackest crepe has let to slip,

The oldest parts of the garden welcome first

The tiny tread of fairy-people in the shimmering dark.

Those little hollows underneath the beech’s roots

I know to be a favourite spot. But better still,

In the blackest shadow of the trees a millstone stands.

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And once it knew hard labour as it ground

The wheat, with endless movement of machinery

And likely thought that life would never end

But, with slow monotony of place and sound

Drag on. Yet now it stands, on a slow full slope

Of lawn, with nought to do but watch the change

Of seasons, and never a care for where, in ruin

And wreck the old mill stands alone. It too

Simply watches all day long with laziness

The roll of the countryside as it meets the sky.

In the blackest shadow of the trees the millstone stands,

With its hard gritstone sides caressed with moss

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And now the stars are gathering one by one

In the empty sky. And quicker still the fairies come

They pick the little lichen cups and from

Them drink the dew. Then they sit awhile, in a row

On the hart’s tongue fern, and in the starry moss-forests they dance.

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Spring Behind the Hedge

It may be some mistake of mine –

For people call it winter still

And Christmas is but lately passed away

With all the rest of the old year, to where

The bygone days all go – and yesterday

I looked out on the garden, and

It darkly glowered back, with a wet

Face under a furious sky. Though t’were

Midday, the light was cold and dim.

And yet I still believe that on

A day in January, not long ago

When some thin golden sunlight had made

Its quiet way out of the prison of

The clouds, I thought I heard the voice of spring

A-whispering in the sodden grass, and saw

Her face, as it peeped shyly through

The bare and dripping silvery hedge.