The green corn waving in the dale, 
The ripe grass waving on the hill: 

I lean across the paddock pale 
And gaze upon the giddy mill. 

Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep 
Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound 

Each strikes in fury down the steep, 
Rattles, and whirls in chase around. 

Beside his sacks the miller stands 
On high within the open door: 

A book and pencil in his hands, 
His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er. 

His tireless merry slave, the wind, 
Is busy with his work to-day: 

From whencesoe'er he comes to grind, 
He hath a will and knows the way. 

He gives the creaking sails a spin, 
The circling millstones faster flee, 

The shuddering timbers groan within, 
And down the shoot the meal runs free. 

The miller giveth him no thanks, 
And doth not much his work o'erlook: 

He stands beside the sacks, and ranks 
The figures in his dusty book.