Classic Poem

When Martin plays upon the flute,
He is a shepherd. Deep
Within the half-lit hills he goes
To seek for his lost sheep.

His staff is made of gentle stuff,
From some place very far;
Across the shadowy, narrow grass
His cloak gleams like a star.

So clear, so clear that call of his
To house from dark and cold,
Not any straggler of them all
Can keep back from that fold.