Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer'd on the graves—
The graves wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet's mirth,
And free the minstrel's hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd,
Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!

Listen to the water-mill;
Through the livelong day,
How the clicking of its wheel
Wears the hours away!
Languidly the autumn wind,
Stirs the forest leaves,
From the field the reapers sing,
Binding up their sheaves;
And a proverb haunts my mind
As a spell is cast—
“The mill cannot grind
With the water that is past.”

Autumn winds revive no more
Leaves that once are shed,
And the sickle cannot reap
Corn once gatherèd;
Flows the ruffled streamlet on,
Tranquil, deep, and still;
Never gliding back again
To the water-mill;
Truly speaks the proverb old
With a meaning vast—
“The mill cannot grind
With the water that is past.”

Take the lesson to thyself,
True and loving heart;
Golden youth is fleeting by,
Summer hours depart;
Learn to make the most of life,
Lose no happy day;
Time will never bring thee back
Chances swept away!
Leave no tender word unsaid,
Love while love shall last —
“The mill cannot grind
With the water that is past.”

Work while yet the daylight shines,
Man of strength and will!
Never does the streamlet glide
Useless by the mill;
Wait not till to-morrow’s sun
Beams upon thy way,
All that thou canst call thine own
Lies in thy “To-day;”
Power, intellect and health
May not always last—
“The mill cannot grind
With the water that is past.”

Oh, the wasted hours of life
That have drifted by!
Oh, the good that might have been—
Lost, without a sigh!
Love that we might once have saved
By a single word,
Thoughts conceived, but never penned,
Perishing unheard;—
Take the proverb to thine heart,
Take, and hold it fast—
“The mill cannot grind
With the water that is past.”