The millstone wights look just like rocks That tumble down the brook. They always work; they never play, Don’t even stop to look. Their backs are bowed, their fingers numb, Their faces smeared with silt. They grind the streambed day and night And never dream or wilt. No song disturbs their labored hush, No whistle splits the air. The moss grows thick upon their arms, The weeds root in their hair. Yet if you speak, they'll lift dead eyes— And turn to stone before replies.
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