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The Waterwheel’s Complaint The Waterwheel’s Complaint and the Stream’s Rebuke. (Suggested by a visit to Curzon’s Mill) The old wheel turned on its creaking shaft To the urge of the water’s press, Then lifted its dripping face to the sun, And the wandering wind’s caress. It hurtled around on its well-worn shaft Till it set its old frame rocking, Then I heard, or seemed to hear, down below, The brook and the old wheel talking. I listened, intent to catch each word Of this dialogue, quite unique, For I’d often heard a waterwheel groan, but never a waterwheel speak. There was no mistake, ‘twas the old wheel’s voice In complaining tones repeating Its fancied wrongs, to the laughing brook, That over its head went leaping. “I have wrought,†it said, “this many a day, Through winter’s cold and rain, While men, in the ceaseless round of years. Have bartered their soul for gain. “But never a penny I’ve got for my toil, Not even the praise of the men Who bring their corn to the miller’s door, To take home as grist again “I am getting old, infirm and gray, My joints creak loud as I turn, While the miller lives on the sweet o’ the land With the money I labor to earn†Then the old wheel uttered a heavy sigh, And creaked out a plaintive moan, And the brook sighed too - as the drops splashed through- Then replied, in a happy tone: “Old friend of mine, ought you complain, When ‘tis I who furnish the power To turn they shaft, that, without my strength Would be still this very hour? “You’ve no power of your own, you are only a wheel, Have you toiled? Then think of me, I have lived and toiled since the earth was young, And the sun first kissed the sea. “And never a word have I uttered yet In complaint, for the work I’ve done, And the good I do is the wage I get, As my course to the sea I run. “The sun, as it swings in the arch of the blue, The stars in their course above, Get naught, for the glorious work they do, But the gift of a Father’s love!†Then the old wheel hung its head in shame, And never a word replied, As I crept up the bank to the rustic bridge, From the happy brooklet’s side. by: Myron Oakman Patton |
Additional Notes:
My mother brought out a book of poems written by my Great-Grandfather. We believe it was written in the late 1800's judging by some dates referenced in some of the poems. The book title is, :"Fragments of Verse (Suggested By Local Scenes") They make reference to Plum Island and Merrimac New Hampshire. He later became a minister. I copied it as exactly as I could, the title was too long to put in the title block. I'd like to show some more of them here if anyone likes them.
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2007-04-30 10:41:16
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Well, Ken, this time I'll reply here...you've paid your money, you deserve
fair return.
This poem is delightful, your great-grandfather was obviously influenced by the
better poets of his day and this one shows the more flowing verse of the Romantics,
yet retains traditions exceedingly well of rhyme scheme and meter count. The variants,
such as found in stanza 8, though nothing today, would have been frowned on at the time
of writing. The only thing tolerated during the mid-Victorian, in England and America,
permitted the absence of heroic couplet and its inversions (something increasingly
thought cumbersome to the growing pulp novel readership.)
What I like so much in this poem is, as in the other, you ancestor's strong moral core
throughout. Here it is to view that to dwell on complaint is to miss so often the
grander scheme of things:
“The sun, as it swings in the arch of the blue,
The stars in their course above,
Get naught, for the glorious work they do,
But the gift of a Father’s love!â€
Indeed the waterwheel serves euphemistically to represent the state of man on earth and
the loss of vision so often present, to view personal circumstance too profoundly. When
the mind is upon the "groans" and toil, it has little time for else...especially the
fine gift of life the water brings (and the fine gift of purpose it bestows on the water-
wheel.)
A good poem by any standard.
JCH