I see below, the little stream
Water gently flowing;
Meandering through the tall pine-trees;
Until lost in the distant hills.

What is this view, but a blanket
The landmarks only patterns
It has no motive for existing
Things just come and go.

From the hill-top, down to the lonely moon
Comes the plangent sound of the wind
The wafting breeze, a gush of air
Soothes my wandering mind.

I see below, away in the horizon,
The dappling beams of sunlight;
Radiant on the decrepit mill
Whose purpose was long since served.

robert milton