George James De Wilde

THERE;—it may serve perhaps some future day,

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.