English poem
The Quiet Valley
by Francis Sherman (1825–1905)
They pity me who have grown old,-- So old, mine eyes may not behold If any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me, because, alas! I lie and dream among the grass, And let the herds unheeded pass.
They deem I must be sorrowing, Because I note not when the Spring Is over me and everything.
They know not why I am forlorn,-- How could they know?--They were not born When he rode here that April morn.
They were not living when he came Into this valley, swift like flame,-- Perchance they have not heard his name!
My men were very valiant men-- (Alas, that I had only ten! These people were not living then.)
But when one is not yet awake His banner is not hard to take, His spears are easy things to break.
And dazed men are not hard to slay When many foes, as strong as they, With swords and spears come down their way.
This valley now has quiet grown; And I lie here content, alone, Dreaming of things that I have known;
And count the mounds of waving grass-- (Ten,--yea, and ten more, by the Mass!) And let the restless cattle pass.