At The Mill.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

The water-wheel goes 'round and 'round
With heavy sighs of mournful sound,
While dismal cries and weary moans
Unite with sad and tearful groans,
And weeping waves of water throw
Afar the echoes of their sadness,
And cadences of plaintive woe
Dispel each little note of gladness.

My daily life goes 'round and 'round,
And rest for me is never found;
The sobbing dirges of distress
Are more than songs of happiness;
The shadows of despairing doom
Condemn to-day and curse to-morrow,
And muffled terrors fill the gloom
Which offers anguish to my sorrow.

But hope, O, heart, for future weal!
The waters rest beyond the wheel;
So life may sing when toil is done
And all its battles lost or won.
There lives a sweeter music there,
Of gentle and melodious measure,
Where weeping never comes and where
The ages perish into pleasure.

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