Concealed on the edge of a sunlit pool,
An old mill performs its daily chore,
Its wheel rotating like an enormous spool,
Water churning with a clamorous roar
Into the river, that passes by,
Where swans and ducks move with no rush.
The insect and the butterfly,
Play gaily in this gentle hush.
The rhythmic turning of this wheel,
Is so mesmeric in its song,
And so a drowsy spell you feel,
As one sweet afternoon is gone.
The bees they hum, the birds declare,
And all is calm, and peace prevails,
And one becomes highly aware,
Of a host of fluttering swallowtails.
Ernestine Northover
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-gentle-hush/
