Oliver Basselin Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the Valley of the Vire
         Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
         And beneath the window-sill,
                  On the stone,
                  These words alone:
"Oliver Basselin lived here."

Far above it, on the steep,
         Ruined stands the old Chateau;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
         Left for shelter or for show.
                  Its vacant eyes
                  Stare at the skies,
Stare at the valley green and deep.

Once a convent, old and brown,
         Looked, but ah! it looks no more,
From the neighboring hillside down
         On the rushing and the roar
                  Of the stream
                  Whose sunny gleam
Cheers the little Norman town.

In that darksome mill of stone,
         To the water's dash and din,
Careless, humble, and unknown,
         Sang the poet Basselin
                  Songs that fill
                  That ancient mill
With a splendor of its own.