Among The Millet

The dew is gleaming in the grass,

The morning hours are seven,

And I am fain to watch you pass,

Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

Ye stray and gather, part and fold;

The wind alone can tame you;

I think of what in time of old

The poets loved to name you.

They called you sheep, the sky your sward,

A field without a reaper;

They called the shining sun your lord,

The shepherd wind your keeper.

Your sweetest poets I will deem

The men of old for moulding

In simple beauty such a dream,

And I could lie beholding,

Where daisies in the meadow toss,

The wind from morn till even,

Forever shepherd you across

The shining field of heaven.