- Que gigantes? — disse Sancho Pança.
- Aqueles que ali vês - respondeu o amo - de braços tão compridos, que alguns os têm de quase duas léguas.
- Olhe bem Vossa Mercê - respondeu Sancho - que aquilo não são gigantes, são moinhos de vento e o que neles parecem braços são as velas que, tocadas pelo vento, fazem trabalhar as mós.

Miguel de Cervantes
O engenhoso cavaleiro dom Quixote de La Mancha

The Windmill

Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882)