Father of his flock he watched the children grow
Out of the cradle he had hewn and shaped
With patient hands; he watched their bright eyes,
Small eager throats, their bodies in sleep breathe slow
And rise again to morning with unbroken ties
Of day on day, of quartered light that spills
Between the valley’s bosom and the farthest skies.
Swift were their feet among the brittle nubbin horns
Of budded leaves sun-broken on the hills.
Then they were gone into their own brave ways,
And the years hung empty as a perished sand
With never a quickened voice, never sudden tears,
But wingless mist hung darkly in remembering eyes.
When the last pillow cupped his head, and all his fears
Were flown as robins to some feathered land,
He was the child with querulous hands and face
And they in wisdom gathered to a hallowed place.