Some labour gathers to itself a light:
This I have found where, women, making bread,
Perform anew an ancient, simple rite
That men and little children may be fed.
Something about the handling of white flour
Is beautiful: the thought of sun on wheat –
The shining silver of a quick, late shower –
A great mill glimmering through the harvest heat –
And old as time- a fadeless picture still:
The gold of grain crushed fine beneath a stone –
Two women grinding at an ancient mill,
And one is taken – one is left alone –
Oh, always, somewhere – women have made bread
That men and little children might be fed.