Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
I. The Water-MillGeorge James De Wilde
T
Dull though the pencil be, and duller he
Who guides it, to recall to memory
The exquisite beauties of this rural way,
Tempting the hurried traveller to delay:—
The mill down in the dell; the huge beech-tree
Flinging its great black arms protectingly
Over the useful stream, with one hot ray
From Autumn’s cloudless sky touched, like a star;
The feathery greenery sheltering everywhere;
The one bright strip of greensward seen afar
Between the mossy trunks.—May never care
Come to the Mill, its clattering glee to mar,
Making all foul within, while all around is fair.