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TREES AND OTHER POEMS THE FOURTH SHEPHERD

I

N nights like this the huddled sheep

Are like white clouds upon the grass,

And merry herdsmen guard their sleep

And chat and watch the big stars pass.

It is a pleasant thing to lie

Upon the meadow on the hill

With kindly fellowship near by

Of sheep and men of gentle will.

I lean upon my broken crook

And dream of sheep and grass and men—

O shameful eyes that cannot look

On any honest thing again!

On bloody feet I clambered down

And fled the wages of my sin, I am the leavings of the town,

And meanly serve its meanest inn.

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