Till the tale of all this flock of days alike

All be done,

Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strike

Thirty-one,

Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and end

With the clock,

Till the last and whitest sheep at last be penned

Of the flock,

I their shepherd keep the count of night and day

With my song,

Though my song be, like this month which once was May,

All too long.

345 XVII

345

The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,

On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:

But trulier had it given the truth

To shape him like a child.

No face full-grown of all our dearest

So lightens all our darkness, none

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