No more the shepherd will
Lead down the misty scars
The small sheep frail and lost,
Nor thread the bracken hill
Singing a shepherd's rune.
The moorland wind is still,
Beneath the ancient moon.
The fells are white with frost.
The white peaks touch the stars.
DERWENTWATER
(To J. L. Paton)
God give me Derwentwater when I die.
Let no one else be by
To say prayers over me or close my eye.
On Friar's Crag my body will lie down.
On green grass and earth brown.
I will forget the fever and the town.
Over the tops of ancient Borrowdale,
Slowly the clouds will sail
Through great sky spaces, exquisite and frail.
And grandly will the flames of heather climb
Up Skiddaw-Hill sublime,
With head unbowed before the knees of time.
Thro' the still dusk a little bird will sing
Sweetly a holy thing,
And fade in silence on a drowsy wing.
The winds will pass along the quiet lake,
And God will gently take
My own breath with them for His Godhead's sake.