Ultima Thule/The Windmill
THE WINDMILL.
Behold! a giant am I!Aloft here in my tower,With my granite jaws I devourThe maize, and the wheat, and the rye,And grind them into flour.
I look down over the farms;In the fields of grain I seeThe harvest that is to be,And I fling to the air my arms,For I know it is all for me.
I hear the sound of flailsFar off, from the threshing-floorsIn barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails,Louder and louder roars.
I stand here in my place,With my foot on the rock below,And whichever way it may blowI meet it face to face,As a brave man meets his foe.
And while we wrestle and striveMy master, the miller, standsAnd feeds me with his hands;For he knows who makes him thrive,Who makes him lord of lands.
On Sundays I take my rest;Church-going bells beginTheir low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast,And all is peace within.