And the young moon’s slender rim
Hides behind the mountain grim.
“’Twas for this sweet boon he came,
Crushing back Death’s eager claim;
Yet a few more lambs to fold,
Ere he mingles with the mold—
Lambs with torn and crimsoned fleece,
Wildered in this wilderness.
“Once again the golden day
Drops her veil of silver gray;