Edwin Arlington Robinson — The Mill

The miller's wife had waited long,        &nbsp The tea was cold, the fire was dead; And there might yet be nothing wrong        &nbsp In how he went and what he said: "There are no millers any more,"        &nbsp Was all that she had heard him say; And he had lingered at the door        &nbsp So long that it seemed yesterday. Sick with a fear that had no form        &nbsp She knew that she was there at last; And in the mill there was a warm        &nbsp And mealy fragrance of the past. What else there was would only seem        &nbsp To say again what he had meant; And what was hanging from a beam        &nbsp Would not have heeded where she went. And if she thought it followed her,        &nbsp She may have reasoned in the dark That one way of the few there were        &nbsp Would hide her and would leave no mark: Black water, smooth above the weir        &nbsp Like starry velvet in the night, Though ruffled once, would soon appear        &nbsp The same as ever to the sight.