My Poem

Keepsake Mill






Over the borders, a sin without pardon,


Breaking the branches and crawling below,


Out through the breech in the wall of the garden,


Down by the banks of the river ,we go.






Here is the mill with the humming of thunder,


Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,


Here is the sluice with the race of running under-


Marvelous places, though handy to home!






Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,


Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;


Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,


Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.






Years may go by, and the wheel in the river


Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,


Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever-


Long after the boys are away.






Home from the Indies and home from the ocean,


Heroes and soldiers we all shall come home;


Still we shall find the old wheel in motion,


Turning and churning that river to foam.






You with the bean that I gave when we quarreled,


I with the marble of Saturday last,


Honoured and old and gaily appareled,


Here we shall meet and remember the past.








                       Robert Louis Stevenson:)