The Thinking Poet


The Mill 

When visions trail like clouds

Across the skies of memory

In the dreamy, balmy afternoon of thought,

Those unfrequented paths which once I trod,

Long overgrown with timeís obscuring briars,

Open once more before me;

Beckoning, inviting,

Bright as morning sun,

Promising rare adventure.

And I feel again

The tingling of the old anticipation

Which never has been,

Nor ever can be, realized

This side of eternity.


For I have learnt

That the bright promise

And the beckoning promise

And the beckoning paths,

Though not illusory,

Serve only to sustain

That unappeasable yet unquenchable faith

In the ultimate reality

For which I yearn.


As the mill-wheel sun

Turns in the stream of time,

So are the sons of men ever supplied

As grist for the mill of life;

And in their grinding,

They are transformed

Preparatory to some enigmatic purpose.


And when the milling is done,

The streamís function

And the wheelís function

And the millís function,

All are fulfilled.


And when the stream is silent,

And the wheel is held,

And the mill is still;

Then shall their purpose unfold