The Mill

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.