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.

[Pg 24]

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,

The waters of no-more-pain,

His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,

'Rest, rest, and rest again.'

[Pg 25]

[Pg 25]

THE BINDWEED

The bindweed roots pierce down

Deeper than men do lie,

Laid in their dark-shut graves

Their slumbering kinsmen by.

Yet what frail thin-spun flowers

She casts into the air,

To breathe the sunshine, and

To leave her fragrance there.

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