When days are done with memory-laden shadows

In half-forgotten beauty’s faded frame,

Waves of white lambs draw slowly through the meadows

From the broad clearing to the darkened stream.

Lambs of the mournful moon, the lusty sun,

You hardly guess or covet unknown treasures,

Lambs that are shallow and a little vain,

Proud of the golden bells which grace your wethers.

Old in our eyes, you think that youth will keep!

Lambs of a happiness which now seems hollow,

Lambs that sedately tread or lightly leap

With feelings which we now can scarcely follow.

You probe, but from a ledge you never shied!

Lambs of the carefully encircled meres,

Lambs of a faithfulness too old, but tried,

Lambs of beyonds that hold no fears.