The dusty miller no longer stands
And slaps his thighs with meal-white hands,
Nor smiles to see the waters whirl
The stones that ground the corn, nor the curl,
Of waves that softly tipped the banks
Of the old mill stream that no longer ranks
As a landmark.
These were traditional men;
There are still a few who remember when
They shelled the corn, and tied the sack,
Then threw it over the bay mare's back---
Riding to the mill in the bend of the creek,
Measuring toll, while news of the week
Was being exchanged.
But now the mill
Resounds to the mourning whippoorwill;
The scoop near by the sagging walls
Lies idle, and no farmer calls...
The moss-grown wheel, the webby bin,
The scurry of mice, a roof grown thin,
Tells the legend much better than I
Of a lost tradition---an era gone by.
Author: Katherine McClure Amyz