The Sad Shepherd

THY song is piteous now that once was glad,
The merry uplands hear thy voice no more —
Thro' frozen forest-ways, O Shepherd sad,
Thou wanderest, while windy tempests roar;

And in thine arms— aye me! — thou claspest tight
A wounded Lamb that bleateth in the cold,
Warming it in thy breast, while thro" the night
Thou strugglest, fain to bear it to the fold!

Shepherd, God bless thy task, and keep thee strong
To help poor lambs that else might die astray! . . .
Thy midnight cry is holier than the song
The summer uplands heard at dawn of day!