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The miller's wife is sitting alone
In the dusk of the autumn day,
While over the hills the shadows fall,
And over the meadows gray;
And the cares of many a busy hour
Have slipped from her heart away.


Her eyes have wandered thro' mist of tears
To the churchyard under the hill,
Where the soft gray tint of the twilight lies,
And all is so calm and still;
And where her treasures--so long ago--
She laid at the Master's will.


And, ah! how oft, as the days go by,
She starts, as her listening ear
Has almost caught on the sighing breeze
Voices so soft and clear.
"'Tis the angels calling!" she thinks. "Ah, me!
It is weary waiting here!"


The miller comes from his work at last,
In the dusk of the autumn day,
And he sits him down by his faithful wife,
And strokes her locks so gray,
And looks in her face with a loving smile
That years steal not away.


And back again as her dim eyes turn
To the hill where the shadows fall,
She thinks, "My treasures are lying there,
But He hath not taken all,
Since one beside me is waiting still
Till the angel voices call."


But the weeks are slow, and the aged two
In the dusk of many a day
Will watch the shadows that come and go
O'er the meadows lonely and gray,
Ere they, at the angels' call, may lie
Where their treasures are laid away.