BLACK CAT POEMS
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The Mill on the Yare
One with legend and the past;
Every beam and every board
Touched by the iconoclast
Time, more potent than the sword;
Crumbling, and yet strangely fair,
Stands the old mill on the Yare.
There are vines that love it well,--
Ivy and the clematis;
Droops and digs the foxglove bell
Where the weir's clear margin is;
And the iris leaneth there
By the old mill on the Yare.
Lilting waters all day long
Meet in silvern melody;
While there mounts the plaintive song
Of the throstle in the tree;
And the skylark charms the air
O'er the old mill on the Yare.
Cross the lintel. From the flume
Drones the mill wheel dull and low;
Through the dense and dusty gloom
Plods the miller, grave and slow;
And he seems his years to wear
Like the old mill on the Yare.
Here is patience; here is peace;
Ah, I would my days might run
To the hour of long release
From all toil beneath the sun
Dreamily as they do there
In the old mill on the Yare!
poems by Clinton Scollard