Behold! A giant am I,
Aloft here in my tower;
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, 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, on 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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