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91
Three Sonnets.
93
II. THE LOST SHEPHERD.
Ay me, the kindly shepherd comes not nowWhose feet were once so fair within the fold,
In whose high presence were our fathers bold.
They said, his tender heart would not allow
His sheep to perish; his side and his bright brow
And hands and feet were bleeding; so they told.
But of the face of him might none behold
Even a little, save he be somehow
Seven times refined in love's refining fire.
This man should haply something see aright.
Alas, and must he know as he draws nigher
The longed-for image from the straining sight
Of his sad eyes and pain of his desire
Receding, rapt into the lonely night?
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