The mill stream

The mill-stream, now that noises cease,

Is all that does not hold its peace;

Under the bridge it murmurs by,

And here are night and hell and I.

Who made the world I cannot tell;

'Tis made, and here I am in hell.

My hand, though now my knuckles bleed,

I never soiled with such a deed.

And so, no doubt, in time gone by,

Some have suffered more than I,

Who only spend the night alone

And strike my fist upon the stone.