THE INCOMING OF SUMMER 27 

 lifted the weedy hatch, and the ponderous 

 stone wheels are crushing the grain. In 

 the pond the tench lie unseen, but the light 

 flames upon the scarlet fins of the roach 

 as they pass. Silently the flume slides 

 forward, then gushes into the troughs of 

 the great elm waterwheel. Jets of water 

 spurt from its old mossy planking, and a 

 rain of drops is flung from the trundling 

 rim. Inside the miller feeds the hoppers, 

 and upon a beam perch two swallows, 

 unheedful of the shake and the thunder. 

 A dust floats in the millhouse, hazing the 

 glass windows and giving to the cobwebs 

 a snowy purity embroidering the robes 

 of the corn-spirit. For centuries the wheat 

 has been ground between the fixed bed- 

 stone and the runner, for centuries the 

 stream has worked for mankind, its splash- 

 ing imprisoning the light of the southern 

 sun falling athwart the wheel. I thought of 

 the men that in the past had laboured for 

 the wheat, of the times the millpeck had 



