He grows younger every second
'He grows younger every secondThat were all his birthdays reckonedMuch too solemn seemed;Because of what he had dreamed,Or the ambitions that he served,Much too solemn and reserved.Jaunting, journeyingTo his own dayspring,He unpacks the loaded pernOf all 'twas pain or joy to learn,Of all that he had made.The outrageous war shall fade;At some old winding whitethorn rootHe'll practice on the shepherd's flute,Or on the close-cropped grassCourt his shepherd lass,Or run where lads reform our day-timeTill that is their long shouting play-time;Knowledge he shall unwindThrough victories of the mind,Till, clambering at the cradle side,He dreams himself his mother's pride,All knowledge lost in tranceOf sweeter ignorance.'
SHEPHERD
When I have shut these ewes and this old ramInto the fold, we'll to the woods and thereCut out our rhymes on strips of new-torn barkBut put no name and leave them at her door.To know the mountain and the valley grieveMay be a quiet thought to wife and mother,And children when they spring up shoulder high.
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