He travels after a winter sun, <br />Urging the cattle along a cold red road, <br />Calling to them, a voice they know, <br />He drives his beasts above Cabra. <br /> <br />The voice tells them home is warm. <br />They moo and make brute music with their hoofs. <br />He drives them with a flowering branch before him, <br />Smoke pluming their foreheads. <br /> <br />Boor, bond of the herd, <br />Tonight stretch full by the fire! <br />I bleed by the black stream <br />For my torn bough!<br /><br />James Joyce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tilly/
