SHEEP HERDING
A gray, slow-moving, dust-bepowdered wave,That on the edges breaks to scattering spray,Round which the faithful collies wheel and barkTo scurry in the laggard feet that stray:A babel of complaining tongues that makeThe dull air weary with their ceaseless fret;Brown hills akin to those of GallileeOn which the shepherds tend their charges yet.The long, hot days; the stark, wind-beaten nights;No human presence, human sight or sound;Grim, silent land of wasted hopes, where theyWho came for gold oft times have madness found;A bleating horror that fore-gathers speech;Freezing the word that from the lip would pass;And sends the herdsman grovelling with his sheep,Face down and beast-like on the trampled grass.
The collies halt; the slow herd sways and reels,Huddled in fright above a low ravine,Where wild with thirst a herd unshepherdedBeats up and down—with something dark between;A narrow circle that they will not cross;A thing to stop the maddest in their run—A guarding dog too weak to lift his head,Who licks a still hand shriveled in the sun.