The Milling-Stone

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
Though still, the millstone turns
Turning in itself, within the mind
Its harp, its furrow remain refined
Though worn dull, vagueness spurns
The great stone, each tiny crease
Delicate, the grain it must release;

A sign of glory's inviolate weight
Hung about the neck like an albatross
To sink, then return to old chaos
Or else, be broken of early or late
Cry out to the stones as you must
Those who remain it will grind to dust.

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