WHEN the red moon hangs over the fold, <br />And the cypress shadow is rimmed with gold, <br />O little sheep, I have laid me low, <br />My face against the old earth's face, <br />Where one by one the white moths go, <br />And the brown bee has his sleeping place. <br />And then I have whispered, Mother, hear, <br />For the owls are awake and the night is near, <br />And whether I lay me near or far <br />No lip shall kiss me, <br />No eye shall miss me, <br />Saving the eye of a cold white star. <br /> <br />And the old brown woman answers mild, <br />Rest you safe on my heart, O child. <br />Many a shepherd, many a king, <br />I fold them safe from their sorrowing. <br />Gwenever's heart is bound with dust, <br />Tristram dreams of the dappled doe, <br />But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust; <br />Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho, <br />And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy. <br /> <br />Little and lonely, <br />Knowing me only, <br />Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy? <br /> <br />When the wind wakes in the apple-tree, <br />And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem, <br />I say my prayers to the Trinity,– <br />The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven <br />To the angels guarding the towers of heaven,– <br />And I lay my head on her raiment's hem, <br />Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star, <br />Where the iris buds and the bellworts are. <br />All night I hear her breath go by <br />Under the arch of the empty sky. <br />All night her heart beats under my head, <br />And I lie as still as the ancient dead, <br />Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep. <br />I and no other <br />Close to my Mother, <br />Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-shepherd-boy/
