Who gathers the grist of ghostly grain From the hopper of Saugatuck mill, Where by day the shadows will creep and glide, And ever the wheel is still? But when the storm-king shall ride awrack, And the tumult sweeps o'er the lake, Men say that the ghostly millers come And the wheel will creak and shake. Then round and round in a fashion weird Will the mystical grain be ground; For the souls of men are in peril that night, And the wails of woe resound. But never shall man eat of baken cake From meal of the haunted mill; It will feed in the night the ghostly crew Who labor there, somber and still. |