"Bozeat Mill"

The wind is slowly turning
The sails of the old mill,
Which yonder against the twilight
Surmounts the grassy hill.

The clouds are slowly moving
As sheep by their shepherd driven,
Purple and pink and golden –
The light of sunset given.

We pause and ponder our labours
Now at close, and they glow with a grace-
Not ours; for He looks and we see them
In the light of God's own face.