The miller's wife had waited long,
       &nbsp The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
And there might yet be nothing wrong
       &nbsp In how he went and what he said:
"There are no millers any more,"
       &nbsp Was all that she had heard him say;
And he had lingered at the door
       &nbsp So long that it seemed yesterday.

Sick with a fear that had no form
       &nbsp She knew that she was there at last;
And in the mill there was a warm
       &nbsp And mealy fragrance of the past.
What else there was would only seem
       &nbsp To say again what he had meant;
And what was hanging from a beam
       &nbsp Would not have heeded where she went.

And if she thought it followed her,
       &nbsp She may have reasoned in the dark
That one way of the few there were
       &nbsp Would hide her and would leave no mark:
Black water, smooth above the weir
       &nbsp Like starry velvet in the night,
Though ruffled once, would soon appear
       &nbsp The same as ever to the sight.