  THE sheep still in dew, but the sky In sun, the far river in sun; And the incense of flowers steeped bright— Their smell as sweet light; And the shepherd-boy tethered on high To his flock and his day’s work begun. The bees in the wind of the dawn; The larks not yet climbing aloft As high as the Aragon Hills ... What bell-ringing thrills Through the bell-wether’s pastoral lorn? From the valley a bell clear and soft. The shepherd-boy kneeling in dew; The bell of his wether rung sharp; Below him the tinkle and sway, From far, far away, Of the sacring-bell, clear as a harp In its chime of God lifted anew. For his God, in the vale, on the height He weeps; while the morning-larks rise. Lo, in chasuble, living and rich Golden rays cross-stitch, Foreshown by magnificent light— Lo, an angel grows firm on his eyes! As an altar of marvellous stone Before him the mountain hath blazed, Round the angel, who lifts in the air A Sun that is there: To the sheep and the shepherd-boy shown, With the ringing of larks, God is raised. O Angel-priest, fragrant with thyme, Girt with sixfold glorious wings! O sky of the mountains above Adventurous Love! How through air and the larks’ watchful chime Earth her incense, as thurifer, flings! O Sacrament, shown to a boy, More blest than the Shepherds of old, He is thine for his lifetime, cast On his mountain vast, In his joy, his great freshness of joy From that high, singing daylight of gold! |
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