The Magic Windmill

nobody@flickr.com (Ben Heine) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 21:02:37 -0700

Ben Heine posted a photo:

© Ben Heine || Facebook || Twitter || www.benheine.com
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I captured this unique instant in Normandy, France
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For more information about my art: info@benheine.com
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The Time Is Like a Windmill

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

The time is like a windmill
Of wheeling on the waves
That goes up and down a hill
In moments of lots to fill
With wonderments and craves

The morning is shining there
Onward to fields and roads
And giving a circle to adhere
From some to almost anywhere
Of many its falling loads

Its silences and tones so soft
Filling the moments to go
And bringing around its oft
With a round and around waft
Like wind in breeze will blow

The day and night to give in
Of each its work be done
From dry to water full spin
Where each of both has been
Until the turning is none

Wheel will strive and break
To reach its own destiny
Give of what it will take
And always be still awake
To turn forever and be free

For it's like circle of life
In making its going turn
And as it too it must strife
And break on through the rife
Forever to go on and learn

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The poem appeared on www.poemhunter.com/peter-s-quinn

The Windmill

nobody@flickr.com (Ben Heine) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 15:40:25 -0700

Ben Heine posted a photo:

© Ben Heine || Facebook || Twitter || www.benheine.com
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For more information about my art: info@benheine.com
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The Windmill

A poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.

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The poem appeared on www.everypoet.com

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The Magic Windmill

The Windmill