The Mill by Edwin Arlington Robinson — Read

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 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.