The Shepherd To His Flock

The sun is warm upon the ridges now; The way was rough and steep; I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy bough And watch my grazing sheep. The smoke is rising from the valley there, The hum of wheels and trade; The stress of life is in the whirling air While I pipe in the shade. Where work is fierce amid the striving throng And music’s voice is mute, Some one may catch the echo of a song-- The faint note of a lute.