Edwin Arlington Robinson



                   The Mill


                   The miller's wife had waited long,
                      The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
                   And there might yet be nothing wrong
                      In how he went and what he said:
                   "There are no millers any more,"
                      Was all that she had heard him say;
                   And he had lingered at the door
                      So long that it seemed yesterday.

                   Sick with a fear that had no form
                      She knew that she was there at last;
                   And in the mill there was a warm
                      And mealy fragrance of the past.
                   What else there was would only seem
                      To say again what he had meant;
                   And what was hanging from a beam
                      Would not have heeded where she went.

                   And if she thought it followed her,
                      She may have reasoned in the dark
                   That one way of the few there were
                      Would hide her and would leave no mark:
                   Black water, smooth above the weir
                      Like starry velvet in the night,
                   Though ruffled once, would soon appear
                      The same as ever to the sight.

                   First publication date: 2 July 1919


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