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.