Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




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;                                             5
    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  ;                                                       10
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,                                                 15
    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.                                                   20