The mill turns by the waterfall;
The loaded wagons go and come;
All day I hear the teamster's call,
All day I hear the thresher's hum:
And many a shout and many a laugh
Come breaking through the clouds of chaff.
The brook glides toward the sleeping lake,
Now bubbling over shining stones
Now under clumps of brush and brake,
Hushing its brawls to murmuring tones,
And now it takes its winding path
Through meadows green with aftermath.
The frosty twilight early falls,
But household fires burn warm and red.
The cold may creep without the walls,
And growing things be stark and dead—
No matter, so the hearth be bright
When household faces meet at night.
