Glenfaba Mill, thy lumbering wheel
Still turns in heavy majesty;
Its measured movement may reveal
The sure approach of destiny;
For men, by modern ways possessed,
May quickly bring that wheel to rest.
But ere it stop, and stop for aye,
It speaks to us of leisured hours;
It breathes a sigh for yesterday
When there was time to gather flowers.
Alone where once a dozen turned,
It will too soon be likewise spurned.
What would it tell could it but speak,
That everyone should hear and know?
Of angry words, of blushing cheek,
Of children’s laughter, hasty blow?
Or would it only sing a song
Of constant strife ‘twixt right and wrong?
It cannot answer if we ask,
But turns its bulk, inured to scorn;
The water feeds it for the task,
The purpose of its being born.
Revolving as the daily sun
Until it life-long labour’s done.
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