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And buried in the yellow broom
That crowns the neighbouring height,
Couches a loutish shepherd groom,
With all his flocks in sight;
Which dot the green braes gloriously
With spots of living light.
It is a sight that filleth me
With meditative joy,
To mark these dumb things curiously,
Crowd round their guardian boy;
As if they felt this Sabbath hour
Of bliss lacked all alloy.
I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree
Opens its little breast of sweets
In meekest modesty,
And breathes the eloquence of love
In muteness, Lord! to thee.
There is no breath of wind to move
The flag-like leaves that spread
Their grateful shadow far above
This turf-supported head;
All sounds are gone—all murmurings
With living nature wed.
