Nod

Softly along the road of evening,

In a twilight dim with rose,

Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,

Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,

Their fleeces charged with gold,

To where the sun's last beam leans low

On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with brier,

From their sand the conies creep;

And all the birds that fly in heaven

Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,

Yet, when night's shadows fall,

His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,

Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,

The waters of no more pain,

His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,

"Rest, rest, and rest again."