XVI

Till the tale of all this flock of days alike All be done, Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strike Thirty-one, Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and end With the clock, Till the last and whitest sheep at last be penned Of the flock, I their shepherd keep the count of night and day With my song, Though my song be, like this month which once was May, All too long.