20th OF JUNE.
VIThe young woman I saw up at the mill the other day is the miller's daughter. How foolish of me not to realise that at once. Of course she is long ago grown up.
I cannot get her out of my thoughts. She stood there so proud, so free, looking so far out over town and wood, yes, even over Rough-Hill itself. What were the dreams which filled her bosom? What were the longings her crossed arms crushed back? Did she, from her exalted place, look down with contempt on mankind's earthborn desire, or was it her wish to be one of the stirring crowd?
I prefer to think of her as the goddess of profound peace, the goddess I worship. Here on Rough-Hill stands her temple, and of the mill I make her high-altar. She calls up here, to blessed peace in nature's unsullied kingdom, he, who weary seeks a haven away from life's daily dust and drab. Her bosom has the meadow's scented clover-rest for the tired wanderer's head, her eyes mirror the heaven's blue, and her voice echoes the winds whispering lullaby in the crowns of the trees.
Am I a fool, you beautiful miller's daughter, to fasten my poem's halo round your head, to choose you as the goddess of my dreams? Or are you merely a little provincial girl who is longing for sweetheart, banns and bridal-bed. Perhaps you have already found your miller-swain? Perhaps it was for him you were looking, when you stood on the high-altar?
