Sheep Herding

A gray, slow-moving, dust-bepowdered wave, That on the edges breaks to scattering spray, Round which the faithful collies wheel and bark To scurry in the laggard feet that stray: A babel of complaining tongues that make The dull air weary with their ceaseless fret; Brown hills akin to those of Gallilee On which the shepherds tend their charges yet.

The long, hot days; the stark, wind-beaten nights; No human presence, human sight or sound; Grim, silent land of wasted hopes, where they Who came for gold oft times have madness found; A bleating horror that fore-gathers speech; Freezing the word that from the lip would pass; And sends the herdsman grovelling with his sheep, Face down and beast-like on the trampled grass.

* * * * *

The collies halt; the slow herd sways and reels, Huddled in fright above a low ravine, Where wild with thirst a herd unshepherded Beats up and down--with something dark between; A narrow circle that they will not cross; A thing to stop the maddest in their run-- A guarding dog too weak to lift his head, Who licks a still hand shriveled in the sun.