This ancient building with its knotted floor
And ceiling beams that brush a tall man’s head.
A twilight filters in o’er narrow sill
Through cob-webbed windows and half-open door.
On all a rain of ivory dust is shed.
The miller moves with slowness but with skill,
And he is powdered with a mealy hoar,
Content as long as the great wheel is fed
With water from the dam beside the mill.
Like leisured clock it turns in ferny stead,
Moving the grinding stones to mill the flour,
And minute after minute, hour by hour,
Measures the life of man by daily bread.
Weekly Times 3.6.60