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.