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.