Your Daily Poem

This site exists for one purpose only: to help dispel the ugly and absolutely untrue myth that poetry is boring. Granted, a lot of poetry is boring, but you won't find it here. At Your Daily Poem, you'll find poetry that is touching, funny, provocative, inspiring, uplifting, and surprising. It may punch you in the gut, it may bring tears to your eyes, it may make you laugh out loud, but it most assuredly will not bore you! Visit our home page every day to see a different poem.

Poetry on YDP—by poets living and long dead, famous to completely unknown--is specially selected for accessibility and appeal. Thanks so much for visiting—and remember: a poem a day keeps the doldrums away!

The Windmill
by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Behold! a giant am I!
   Aloft here in my tower,
    With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
    And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
   In the fields of grain I see
    The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
    For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
    Far off, from the threshing-floors
    In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
    Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
   With my foot on the rock below,
   And whichever way it may blow
I meet it face to face,
   As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive
   My master, the miller, stands
   And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
   Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
   Church-going bells begin
    Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
    And all is peace within.

This poem is in the public domain.

Most experts would agree that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was the most popular American poet of the nineteenth century. A family man who suffered much tragedy in his personal life, Longfellow was the first of a group of writers known as the "Fireside Poets," called such for their popularity with families all over the country who gathered by the fire in the evenings to read the work of these poets aloud. Longfellow published poetry over a forty year period, and enjoyed public adulation in line with that of rock stars and celebrities today.

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KevinArnold:
After some research I learned that, to minimize storm damage, the arms of the windmills of Longfellow's day could be folded up, so the last stanza probably refers to the practice of doing so on the Sabbath.
Posted 09/04/2011 12:18 PM

LRL:
a great image, a poem that begs to be shared around a fire.
Posted 09/04/2011 09:17 AM

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