The Windmill

I stand where weathers beat my breast,
Where every wind turns round my sails,
I stand where summer sunbeams rest,
And where the winter flings his gales.

High on this hill I see below
The ripening ears of golden corn,
But when the winter zephyrs blow,
I look upon this scene, forlorn.

My arms, they seldom rest they turn
With every tidal wave of wind,
Deep in my bosom I discern
The grain that I must slowly grind.

I work from morning till the eve,
My years of toil unending are,
But quiet winds of night will leave
Me still beneath the evening star.

Lo, I stand out against the sky,
Where the horizoned purples leap,
And as the shades of evening die,
I slowly still my arms in sleep.

Reg Brewer