Life is a shepherd lad who strides and sings
Leading his flock, his brow bared to the sun,
Who knows the good grass and the hidden springs
From whence streams of eternal beauty run.

Life is a cowherd, old, with bleeding lips,
Driving fear-maddened cattle down a hill,
With matted hides worn raw at knees and hips,
Knowing no sleep, no leisure to be still.

For one the dew, the hare-bell and the song;
For one the mire, the hurry and the thong.