Classic Poem

Across the Park, at set of sun,
The shepherd drives his sheep;
The little lambs that scarce can run
But by their mothers keep.

The town roars on without the gate;
There comes a wavering gust
Of children's laughter, and the grate
Of wheels along the dust.

A figure scriptural and kind,
Cut out against the brass
That deepens in the west behind,
He follows through the grass.

He gives a Syrian look to things,
From highest unto least;
To sky, to beechen bough, there clings
A flavor of the East.

With hurrying noises close but light
Straight to the fold they keep;
A pastoral spread before our sight,
A shepherd and his sheep.

My years in this green close are set;
The mint buds lilac row by row;
Thy suns blaze on; Thy showers wet;
And I rejoice that it is so.

Each stalk of lavender is sweet;
As I fare back from ailing men,
I smell it out there in the street,
And praise Thee I am home again.

Lord, in the shop at Nazareth,
Was not the scent of cedar Thine,
Mixed with Thy work a country breath,
As is this lavender with mine?

Ever the while I sow or reap,
My sick folk seem about me, Lord
As were I shepherd, they the sheep;
Their cares smite through me like a sword.

Fra Simon has a lovely book,
On rainy days he comes to me,
Over the painted leaves to crook,
And therefrom read some word of Thee.

Fra Simon wrought this book himself;
Luke with his viol breaks my heart;
A few dried simples on a shelf
Are all my song, and all mine art.

I sort them out on floor and sill;
Fennel, and balm, and silver sage;
This one for fever, this for chill;
And, loving each, I get my wage.

Do such as I to glory pass,
Skilled but in what each season grows?
I, gatherer of the convent grass,
With smell of mold about my clothes?

I cannot sing; I scarce can pray;
Let me have there some garden space,
Where I may dig in mine old way,
And, looking up, Lord, see Thy face.