Ultima Thule: The Windmill
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807 (Portland) – 1882 (Cambridge)
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.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 30, 2023
- 54 sec read
- 195 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABBAB CDDCD CEEXE FGGFG HIIHI JKKJK |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 858 |
Words | 182 |
Stanzas | 6 |
Stanza Lengths | 5, 5, 5, 5, 5, 5 |
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"Ultima Thule: The Windmill" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/18994/ultima-thule:-the-windmill>.
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