Folk-Songs. The Windmill

BEHOLD! a giant am I!

Aloft here in my tower,

With my granite jaws I devour

The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,

And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;

In the fields of grain I see

The harvest that is to be,

And I fling to the air my arms,

For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails

Far off, from the threshing-floors

In barns, with their open doors,

And the wind, the wind in my sails,

Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,

With my foot on the rock below,

And whichever way it may blow,

I meet it face to face

As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,

My master, the miller, stands

And feeds me with his hands;

For he knows who makes him thrive,

Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;

Church-going bells begin

Their low, melodious din;

I cross my arms on my breast,

And all is peace within.