Twas March, when first I spied
the lark, in wing-ed reverie.
Seem’d to me the first I bring
my soul to love that’s fled.
In remembrance of winter’s bite
do I shut the door so heavily
despite the bloom of spring.
O Cross-Slide Milling Head!
Thine is cutting might
of perfect interior radii.
With burr-less edges bright,
their contours e’er made me sigh.
I feel my melancholy
subjugated grindigly
with rotational multiplicity
and milling speed so blindingly.
If summer comes to find me lost
fear not, I have but dwelt
within the shed, a-milling
and in the milling shed.
My heart will hence recount the cost
of sadness strongly felt
less sadly and more thrilling
with Cross-Slide Milling Head.
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