AMONG THE MILLET
THE dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.They called you sheep, the sky your sward,A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for moulding,In simple beauty, such a dream,—And I could lie beholding,Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till evenForever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.
THE dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.They called you sheep, the sky your sward,A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for moulding,In simple beauty, such a dream,—And I could lie beholding,Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till evenForever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.
THE dew is gleaming in the grass,The morning hours are seven;And I am fain to watch you pass,Ye soft white clouds of heaven.Ye stray and gather, part and fold;The wind alone can tame you;I think of what in time of oldThe poets loved to name you.They called you sheep, the sky your sward,A field without a reaper;They called the shining sun your lord,The shepherd wind your keeper.Your sweetest poets I will deemThe men of old for moulding,In simple beauty, such a dream,—And I could lie beholding,Where daisies in the meadow toss,The wind from morn till evenForever shepherd you acrossThe shining field of heaven.
THE dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven;
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.
Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.
They called you sheep, the sky your sward,
A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.
Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding,
In simple beauty, such a dream,—
And I could lie beholding,
Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even
Forever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.