Hay A Needle Poem by James McLain

DESCENDED, from the good shepard,
over there of the size of mountain course:
Which pleasure lives in the face (did the shepherd she/he sing) ,
in the face and cold, the splendour of the hills?
She slake her thirst, in running streams and slipping stone.
But cease thus moving close to the skies, and cease slipping
an sun ray by the blown pine, a needle lay
to put back a star on the arrow tipped it flutter;
there doth the dove, it lay.
And come, because lt's love is in the valley, come,
For lt's love is the valley, come, inside the valley rest and sleep, or,
descend a thousand steps And find it not;
by the happy threshold, it,
Or red with the crimson spirted of the torn shanks,
Or foxlike in the vine; neither care to go, hand known
With death and the morning on the gold angled horns,
Neither fades the thousands snare it so;
in out the white ravine, nor find it 's dropt on the estuaries
of the ice driping not,
That slope to blotter itself in autumns furrow-split to roll the
torrent out of the dark doors and the sea it waits below.