A Hymn of Empire and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott

 

THE MILL-STREAM

 
CLEAR down the mountain, ’neath the arching green,
    And o’er mossed boulders dappled by the sun,
     With many a leap the laughing waters run.
They tumble fearless down each dark ravine,
And roam through caves where day has never been:
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    Until, at last, the open pool is won,
    Where, by their prisoned strength, man’s work is done
In that old mill which branching cedars screen.

Here, all day long, the massy logs, updrawn
    Against the biting saw, are loud with shrieks.
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        Here, too, at night, are stars and mystery,
And nature sleeping; and, all round at dawn,
    The rugged utterance of mountain peaks
        Against the infinite silence of the sky.