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Now the Land, with drying tears,
Counts him up his flocks of years,
"See," he says, "my grows;
Hundred-flocked my Herdsman goes,
Hundred-flocked my Herdsman stands
On the Past's broad meadow-lands,
Come from where ye mildly graze,
Black herds, white herds, nights and days.
Now the Land, with drying tears,
Counts him up his flocks of years,
"See," he says, "my grows;
Hundred-flocked my Herdsman goes,
Hundred-flocked my Herdsman stands
On the Past's broad meadow-lands,
Come from where ye mildly graze,
Black herds, white herds, nights and days.
Sidney Lanier
