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Translated by J. C. Mangan
IT stands in the lonely Winterthal, | |
| At the base of Ilsberg hill; | |
| It stands as though it fain would fall, | |
| The dark Deserted Mill. | |
| Its engines, coated with moss and mould, | 5 |
| Bide silent all the day; | |
| Its mildewed walls and windows old | |
| Are crumbling to decay. | |
| |
| So through the daylight’s lingering hours | |
| It mourns in weary rest; | 10 |
| But soon as the sunset’s gorgeous bowers | |
| Begin to fade in the west, | |
| The long-dead millers leave their lairs, | |
| And open its creaking doors, | |
| And their feet glide up and down its stairs, | 15 |
| And over its dusty floors. | |
| |
| And the miller’s men, they too awake, | |
| And the night’s weird work begins; | |
| The wheels turn round, the hoppers shake, | |
| The flour falls into the bins. | 20 |
| The mill-bell tolls agen and agen, | |
| And the cry is, “Grist here, ho!” | |
| And the dead old millers and their men | |
| Move busily to and fro. | |
| |
| And ever as night wears more and more | 25 |
| New groups throng into the mill, | |
| And the clangor, deafening enough before, | |
| Grows louder and wilder still. | |
| Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor; | |
| The wheels redouble their din; | 30 |
| The hoppers clatter, the engines roar, | |
| And the flour o’erflows the bin. | |
| |
| But with the morning’s pearly sheen | |
| This ghastly hubbub wanes, | |
| And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen | 35 |
| Through the meal-dulled window-panes. | |
| She opens the sash, and her words resound | |
| In tones of unearthly power,— | |
| “Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground; | |
| Come hither and take your flour!” | 40 |
| |
| Thereon strange hazy lights appear | |
| A-flitting all through the pile, | |
| And a deep, melodious, choral cheer | |
| Ascends through the roof the while. | |
| But, a moment more, and you gaze and hark, | 45 |
| And wonder and wait in vain; | |
| For suddenly all again is dark, | |
| And all is hushed again. | |
| |
| It stands in the desolate Winterthal, | |
| At the base of Ilsberg hill; | 50 |
| It stands as though it would rather fall, | |
| The long-deserted Mill. | |
| Its engines, coated with moss and mould, | |
| Bide silent all the day; | |
| And its mildewed walls and windows old | 55 |
| Are crumbling fast away. | |
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