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Amy Lowell - The Paper Windmill

The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane 
and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning.  The cobble-stones of 
the square
glistened like mica.  In the trees, a breeze danced and 
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown 
of the canal.  Down stream slowly drifted a long string 
of galliots
piled with crimson cheeses.  The little boy thought they 
looked as if
they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs.  He said, 
"Oh!" with delight,
and pressed against the window with all his might.

The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed.  His 
beak was open
like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged 
in it.
"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy.  "Can't you 
hear me
through the window, Gold Cocky?  Cock-a-doodle-do!  You 
should crow
when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc."  But 
the golden cock
stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.
He could not understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico"
when he said anything.  But he was hung in the air to 
swing, not to sing.
His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses
drifted away down the canal.

It was very dull there in the big room.  Outside in the 
square, the wind
was playing tag with some fallen leaves.  A man passed, 
with a dogcart
beside him full of smart, new milkcans.  They rattled 
out a gay tune:
"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti.  Have some milk for your tea.  Cream 
for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,"
and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment:  "Plop! trop! 
milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night."  It was very pleasant 
out there,
but it was lonely here in the big room.  The little boy 
gulped at a tear.

It was queer how dull all his toys were.  They were so 
Nothing was still in the square.  If he took his eyes 
away a moment
it had changed.  The milkman had disappeared round the 
there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her 
picking her way over the shiny stones.  But the wind pulled 
the leaves
in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful 
The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and 
they seemed
sprinkled with silver.  The little boy sighed as he looked 
at his disordered
toys on the floor.  They were motionless, and their colours 
were dull.
The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun.  There was none 
left for toys.

The square was quite empty now.  Only the wind ran round 
and round it,
spinning.  Away over in the corner where a street opened 
into the square,
the wind had stopped.  Stopped running, that is, for it 
stopped spinning.  It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, 
and turned.
It burned like a great coloured sun.  It hummed, and buzzed, 
and sparked,
and darted.  There were flashes of blue, and long smearing 
lines of saffron,
and quick jabs of green.  And over it all was a sheen 
like a myriad
cut diamonds.  Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,
and the little boy's head reeled with watching it.  The 
whole square
was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster.  The little boy could not speak, he 
could only gaze,
staring in amaze.

The wind-wheel was coming down the square.  Nearer and 
nearer it came,
a great disk of spinning flame.  It was opposite the window 
and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more
than the wind which he saw.  A man was carrying a huge 
fan-shaped frame
on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper 
each one scurrying round in the breeze.  They were bright 
and beautiful,
and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little 
who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.

The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,
for the circling windmills made him dizzy.  Closer and 
came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy
in the window of the Ambassador's house.  Only a pane 
of glass
between the boy and the windmills.  They slid round before 
his eyes
in rapidly revolving splendour.  There were wheels and 
wheels of colours --
big, little, thick, thin -- all one clear, perfect spin.  The 
windmill vendor
dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued
to the window-pane.  Oh!  What a glorious, wonderful 
Rings and rings of windy colour always moving!  How had 
any one ever preferred
those other toys which never stirred.  "Nursie, come quickly.  Look!
I want a windmill.  See!  It is never still.  You 
will buy me one, won't you?
I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue."

So a servant was sent to buy that one:  silver, ringed 
with blue,
and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood 
a moment
to pay the vendor.  Then he entered the house, and in 
another minute
he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on 
the end
of a stick which he held out to the little boy.  "But 
I wanted a windmill
which went round," cried the little boy.  "That is the 
one you asked for,
Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to 
"See, it is silver, and here is the blue."  "But it is 
only a blue streak,"
sobbed the little boy.  "I wanted a blue ring, and this 
doesn't sparkle."  "Well, Master Charles, that is what 
you wanted,
now run away and play with it, for I am very busy."

The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane.  On 
the floor
lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick.
But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his 
big wheel
of whirring splendour.  It spun round in a blaze like 
a whirling rainbow,
and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed
a maze of spattering diamonds.  "Cocorico!" crowed the 
golden cock
on the top of the `Stadhuis'.  "That is something worth 
crowing for."
But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled
bit of paper on the floor.

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Added: Feb 1 2004 | Viewed: 6945 times | Comments and analysis of The Paper Windmill by Amy Lowell Comments (0)

The Paper Windmill - Comments and Information

Poet: Amy Lowell
Poem: 2. The Paper Windmill
Volume: Men, Women and Ghosts
- Clocks Tick a Century
Poem of the Day: Mar 26 2012
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