Windmill.

THE tower-like mill,
High on the hill,
Tells us of many fair homesteads concealed
In the valleys around;
Where waving in sunlight, many a field
Of bright grain may be found.

The wild free wind
They have sought to bind
And make it labor like all other things;
Nought careth he;
Joyful he works, while he joyfully sings,
And wanders free.

A broad swift stream,
With glance and gleam,
Comes rolling down from the mountains afar,
Exulting in life;
It sweeps over rocks; it knows no bar;
Too mighty for strife.

Green winding lanes,
Broad sunny plains,
High hills echoing every sweet sound,
Trees stately and tall,
Glorious in beauty are seen all around.—
Where is the lord of all?

Like the eagle high,
That cleaves through the sky,
Whose keen eye glances through burning light,
Such should he be!
Seest thou yonder that poor weary wight?