The Windmill

Behold! a giant am I!
&nbsp Aloft here in my tower,
&nbsp With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
&nbsp And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
&nbsp In the fields of grain I see
&nbsp The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
&nbsp For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
&nbsp Far off, from the threshing-floors
&nbsp In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
&nbsp Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
&nbsp With my foot on the rock below,
&nbsp And whichever way it may blow
I meet it face to face,
&nbsp As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
&nbsp My master, the miller, stands
&nbsp And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
&nbsp Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
&nbsp Church-going bells begin
&nbsp Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
&nbsp And all is peace within.