The Mill
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he miller's wife had waited long,The tea was cold, the fire was dead;And there might yet be nothing wrongIn 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 doorSo long that it seemed yesterday. Sick with a fear that had no formShe knew that she was there at last;And in the mill there was a warmAnd mealy fragrance of the past.What else there was would only seemTo say again what he had meant;And what was hanging from a beamWould not have heeded where she went. And if she thought it followed her,She may have reasoned in the darkThat one way of the few there wereWould hide her and would leave no mark:Black water, smooth above the weirLike starry velvet in the night,Though ruffled once, would soon appearThe same as ever to the sight.
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