| Description |
Now only the note of a pigeon's coo. Or the buzzing of bees in the chimney flue Disturb the gray squirrels in the cellar below, Unless some boy passing casually by Throws a rock through the high window at the rear, Or maybe some lovers or drunks park near To finish a tete a tete or a beer Away from the public eye. One day as I climbed to the attic space, It seemed I could see the things that once took place. Water running through the old millrace And the wheels and stones turned as of yore; And I thought I heard the miller shout Directions to those driving in and out As he separated the sacks of bran and shorts From those filled with "Becker's Best" High patent flour. As ecstatic tremor seemed to surge through the mill As if each stone and timber felt the thrill Of being productive and useful still, Though the uprights shook under the strain. For a moment only I felt the change, Then nothing of movement or sound remained, But a bit of wisdom that I gained Returns to my mind like an old refrain. "Life is not measured in years, but in deeds, And only that person or thing succeeds, That functions to fill an others needs." This truth I learned from the pioneer mill, Which eulogises in stone and clay The achievements of the builders of yesterday, And in its silent spectral way Leaves us a challenge still. Reference: A historical paper written by Howard Cox for D.U.P. records. 23 |
