The Windmill


    Behold! a giant am I!
        Aloft here in my tower,
        With my granite jaws I devour
    The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
        And grind them into flour.

    I look down over the farms;
        In the fields of grain I see
        The harvest that is to be,
    And I fling to the air my arms,
        For I know it is all for me.

    I hear the sound of flails
        Far off, from the threshing-floors
        In barns, with their open doors,
    And the wind, the wind in my sails,
        Louder and louder roars.

    I stand here in my place,
        With my foot on the rock below,
        And whichever way it may blow
    I meet it face to face,
        As a brave man meets his foe.

    And while we wrestle and strive
        My master, the miller, stands
        And feeds me with his hands;
    For he knows who makes him thrive,
        Who makes him lord of lands.

    On Sundays I take my rest;
        Church-going bells begin
        Their low, melodious din;
    I cross my arms on my breast,
        And all is peace within.


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Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Wind Over The Chimney

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