Mining in the Field of Art

My mother would recite this poem when we were traveling in the car.

by Sarah Doudney 1841-1926 English

 

Listen to the water-mill

Through the livelong day,

How the clicking of its wheell

Wears the hours away!

Languidly the autumn wind,

stirs the forest leaves,

From the field the reapers sing,

Binding up their sheaves;

And the proverb haunts my mind

As a spell is cast–

“The mill cannot grind

With the water that has past.”

 

Autumn winds revive no more

Leaves that once are shed,

And the sickle cannot reap

Corn once gatheres;

Flows the ruffled streamlet on,

Tranquil, deep, and still;

Never gliding back again

To the water-mill

Truly speaks the proverb old

With meaning vast–

“The mill cannot grind

With the water that has past.”

 

Take the lesson to thyself,

True and loving heart;

Golden youth is fleeting by,

Summer hours depart;

Learn to make the most of life,

Lose no happy day;

Time will never bring thee back

Chances swept away!

Leave no tender word unsaid

Love while love shall last–

“The mill cannot grind

With the water that has past.”

 

Work while yet the daylight shines,

Man of strength and will!

Never does the streamlet glide

Useless by the mill;

Wait not till to-morrrow’s sun

Beams upon thy way

All that thou canst call thine own

Lies in thy “To-day”‘

Power, intellect and health

May not always last–

“The mill cannot grind

With the water that has past.”

 

Oh, the wasted hours of life

That have drifted by!

Oh, the good that might have been–

Lost, without a sigh!

Love that we once have saved

By a single word,

Thoughts conceived, but never penned,

Perishing unheard;–

Take the proverb to thine heart,

Take, and hold it fast–

“The mill cannot grind

With the water that has past.”

 

 Sarah Doudney wrote this when she wa 15 years old.