Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Beaver Brook
By James Russell Lowell (18191891)H
And, minuting the long day’s loss,
The cedar’s shadow, slow and still,
Creeps o’er its dial of gray moss.
The aspen’s leaves are scarce astir;
Only the little mill sends up
Its busy, never-ceasing burr.
The road along the mill-pond’s brink,
From ’neath the arching barberry-stems,
My footstep scares the shy chewink.
The mill’s red door lets forth the din;
The whitened miller, dust-imbued,
Flits past the square of dark within.
Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,
Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,
And gently waits the miller’s will.
Unheard, and then, with flashing bound,
Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,
And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round.
The quivering millstones hum and whirl,
Nor how for every turn are tost
Armfuls of diamond and of pearl.
With drops of some celestial juice,
To see how Beauty underlies
Forevermore each form of Use.
Which now so dull and darkling steals,
Thick, here and there, with human blood,
To turn the world’s laborious wheels.
Shut in our several cells, do we
Know with what waste of beauty rare
Moves every day’s machinery.
When this fine overplus of might,
No longer sullen, slow, and dumb,
Shall leap to music and to light.
Life of itself shall dance and play,
Fresh blood in Time’s shrunk veins make mirth,
And labor meet delight half-way.