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 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.