The Fourth Shepherd

On nights like this the huddled sheep

Are like white clouds upon the grass,

And merry herdsmen guard their sleep

And chat and watch the big stars pass.

It is a pleasant thing to lie

Upon the meadow on the hill

With kindly fellowship near by

Of sheep and men of gentle will.

I lean upon my broken crook

And dream of sheep and grass and men —

O shameful eyes that cannot look

On any honest thing again!

On bloody feet I clambered down

And fled the wages of my sin,

I am the leavings of the town,

And meanly serve its meanest inn.

I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,

While sleep takes man and beast to her.

And every cloud is calling “Thief!”

And every star calls “Murderer!”