THE MILLER AND HIS SON
"There came a sound of weeping
To the Miller in his Mill:
Red roses in a thicket
Bloomed over near his wheel;
"Three stars shone wild and brightly
Above the forest dim:
But never his dearest son
Returns again to him.
"The cuckoo shall call 'Cuckoo!'
In vain along the vale—
The linnet, and the blackbird,
The mournful nightingale;
"The Miller hears and sees not,
Thinking of his son;
His toppling wheel is silent;
His grinding done.
"'You doves so white,' he weepeth,
'You roses on the tree,
You stars that shine so brightly,
You shine in vain for me!
"'I bade him follow, follow!'
He said, 'O Father dear,
These doves so white will lead me far
But never bring me near.'". . .
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