The Song of the Happy Shepherd

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    <strong>The Song of the Happy Shepherd</strong><u>?99lｉｂ.</u>

    THE woods of Arcady are dead,

    And over is their antique joy;

    Of old the world on dreaming fed;

    Grey Truth is now her paioy;

    Yet still she turns her restless head:

    But O, sick children of the world,

    Of all the many ging things

    In dreary dang past us whirled,

    To the <q>?</q>cracked tuhat os sings,

    Words alone are certain good.

    Where are now the warring kings,

    Word be-mockers? - By the Rood,

    Where are now the watring kings?

    An idle word is now their glory,

    By the stammering schoolboy said,

    Reading some entaory:

    The kings of the old time are dead;

    The wanderih herself may be

    Only a sudden flaming word,

    In ging space a moment heard,

    Troubling the endless reverie.

    Then nowise worship dusty deeds,

    Nor seek, for this is also sooth,

    To hunger fiercely after truth,

    Lest all thy toiling only breeds

    New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth

    Saving in thine ow. Seek, then,

    No learning fro<samp>.９9ｌiｂ?</samp>m the starry men,

    Who follow with the optic glass

    The whirling ways of stars that pass -

    Seek, then, for this is also sooth,

    No word of theirs - the cold star-bane

    Has cloven aheir hearts in twain,

    And dead is all their human truth.

    Go gat<s></s>her by the humming sea

    Some twisted, echo-harb shell.

    And to its lips thy story tell,

    And they thy forters will be.

    Rew in melodious guile

    Thy fretful words a little while,

    Till they shall singing fade in ruth

    And die a pearly brotherhood;

    For words alone are certain good:

    Sing, then, for this <u></u>is also sooth.

    I must be gohere is a grave

    Where daffodil and lily wave,

    And I would please the hapless faun,

    Buried uhe sleepy ground,

    With mirthful songs before the dawn.

    His shouting days with mirth were ed;

    And still I dream he treads the lawn,

    Walking ghostly in the dew,

    Pierced by my glad singing through,

    My songs of old earths dreamy youth:

    But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!

    For fair are poppies on the brow:

    Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

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