Over the borders, a sin without pardon,
branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the
banks of the river we go.
Here is a mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir
with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under--
places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note
of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his
ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it
wheels for us, children, to-day,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever
Long after all
of the boys are away.
Home for the Indies and home from the ocean,
soldiers we all will come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
churning that river to foam.
You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your
marble of Saturday last,
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,
Here we shall
meet and remember the past.