Poème en langue anglaise, par un auteur anonyme :

The Watermill

Resting by the river, see the dancing waters flow,
Turning round the millwheel, in the valley down below.
Softly splashing water, shining in the sun,
Grinding, rumbling, gently, it's work is never done.

So long it has been standing, it looks so natural there,
One day before the Doomesday, it stood all new and bare.
Whilst silvery flashing waters, about the old wheel play,
It conjures up our yesteryears, some centuries ago,
The old wheel turning gently, the machinery to and fro.

Inside the mill in dark and dust, the noise and rumble feel,
The groan and squeak of shaft and gear, turned by the waterwheel,
The miller working here and there, checking feel and flow
Of grain, of flour, of shaft and belt, of sieves that rock below.
A careful eye, a feeling hand, that feels for any wrong.
An oil, a screw, a knock, a shake, keeps on its happy song.

At end of day, when work is done, the sluice is dropped, sealed tight.
The door is closed, the mill is still in the quiet of the night.
But inside, in the building dark, life is within there still,
Voles look for food, and mice as well, they sit and eat their fill.
The water drips, the beams still creak, the building lays at rest,
I see it now in silhouette, in silence at its best.

The building now needs work and funds, to heal its wounds and wear,
If left alone, it rots and falls, it won't be standing there.
So treat it well, oh trusted friend, support its ailing years,
Renew, replace and see it well, so near the future fears,
Restore its place within our land, so proud and gentle still,
So later those who follow us, can see this watermill.