One with legend and the past;
Every beam and every board
Touched by the iconoclast
Time, more potent than the sword;
Crumbling, and yet strangely fair,
Stands the old mill on the Yare. There are vines that love it well, --
Ivy and the clematis;
Droops and digs the foxglove bell
Where the weir's clear margin is;
And the iris leaneth there
By the old mill on the Yare. Lilting waters all day long
Meet in silvern melody;
While there mounts the plaintive song
Of the throstle in the tree;
And the skylark charms the air
O'er the old mill on the Yare. Cross the lintel. From the flume
Drones the mill wheel dull and low;
Through the dense and dusty gloom
Plods the miller, grave and slow;
And he seems his years to wear
Like the old mill on the Yare. Here is patience; here is peace;
Ah, I would my days might run
To the hour of long release
From all toil beneath the sun
Dreamily as they do there
In the old mill on the Yare!