In a village far from here,
Lived a miller named Symkyn, oh dear,
He was known for his cheating ways,
Stealing corn for countless days.

Oh, the miller's gonna get his due,
With students John and Alan, too,
A tale of tricks and bedlam, oh,
In the Reeve's tale, let the laughter flow!

John and Alan, students bright,
Set off to set the miller right,
To catch him in his sneaky game,
And make him feel a bit of shame.

They watched him steal their corn away,
Then planned to make him rue the day,
With beds all swapped and tricks so sly,
They laughed and winked and then went by.

At night the miller snored so loud,
While his wife and daughter proud,
In beds were laid and soon were swapped,
With John and Alan, oh how they hopped!

In the dark, the chaos spread,
As everyone swapped around in bed,
The miller’s wife with Alan lay,
While John and daughter had their way.

Come morning light, what a sight,
The miller raged with all his might,
But John and Alan laughed with glee,
They'd had their fun and got off free.

So if you cheat and steal away,
Remember this tale, it’s here to stay,
For tricksters may be tricked as well,
In tales like this we love to tell!

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been
About those deserts blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite
Trampled and passed it o'er,
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
His favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
Crushed it beneath their tread;
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Held close in her caress,
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith
Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
Pacing the Dead Sea beach,
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
In half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Now in this crystal tower
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,
It counts the passing hour,

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;
Before my dreamy eye
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,
Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
This little golden thread
Dilates into a column high and vast,
A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,
The column and its broader shadow run,
Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shut out the lurid sun,
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;
The half-hour's sand is run!