  I HEAR the far moon’s silver call High in the upper wold; And shepherd-like it gathers all My thoughts into its fold. Oh happy thoughts, that wheresoe’er They wander through the day, Come home at eve to upper air Along a shining way. Though some are weary, some are torn, And some are fain to grieve, And some the freshness of the morn Have kept until the eve, And some perversely seek to roam E’en from their shepherd bright, Yet all are gathered safely home, And folded for the night. Oh happy thoughts, that with the streams The trees and meadows share The sky path to the gate of dreams, In their white shepherd’s care. |
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