To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.
The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.