The Whirring of the Mill

Someplace off in the distance, 
The wheel is turning still; 
The voices are the same, beneath 
The whirring of the mill, 

The clothes are old, the accents strange, 
The words are unfamiliar: 
But life is life, wheree'r life is, 
And so, the picture's clearer 

If we just stop to listen. We 
Have eyes, but they mislead us: 
But it will be our ears, and thoughts 
That will at last 

Have freed us

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