Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Windmill

Behold! a giant am I!        &nbsp Aloft here in my tower,        &nbsp With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,        &nbsp And grind them into flour. I look down over the farms;        &nbsp In the fields of grain I see        &nbsp The harvest that is to be, And I fling to the air my arms,        &nbsp For I know it is all for me. I hear the sound of flails        &nbsp Far off, from the threshing-floors        &nbsp In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails,        &nbsp Louder and louder roars. I stand here in my place,        &nbsp With my foot on the rock below,        &nbsp And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face,        &nbsp As a brave man meets his foe. And while we wrestle and strive        &nbsp My master, the miller, stands        &nbsp And feeds me with his hands; For he knows who makes him thrive,        &nbsp Who makes him lord of lands. On Sundays I take my rest;        &nbsp Church-going bells begin        &nbsp Their low, melodious din; I cross my arms on my breast,        &nbsp And all is peace within.