To A Poet's Memory Poem by Annie Adams Fields

THE shepherd climbed the hill through dark and light,
And on and on he went,
Higher and higher still,
Seeking a pasture hidden in the height.
He followed by the rill,
He followed past the rocks,
And as he went singing he shepherded his flocks.

How wide those upland pastures none e'er knew;
But over the wild hills
A stretch of watered grass,
Outspreading, though half hidden from the view,
Invites that all may pass.
He sees the weary way,
Yet, while the shepherd sings, how brief the toilsome day!

Stand thou with me and watch his eager feet.
He stays not for the drought,
Nor lingers in the shade,
Save where the clover and the streamlet meet;
There, quiet, unafraid,
The tender lambs may feed
While the calm noon gives rest to those who are in need.

Again I see his figure cut the sky,
Then sink, and reappear
Upon a loftier plain,
Where far beneath his feet the eagles cry.
I cannot hear his strain,
But in a moving drift
I see the snow-white sheep follow the music's lift.

The climbing shepherd long ago has passed,
Yet in the morning air,
For those who listen well,
His song still lingers where his feet made haste;
And where his music fell
The happy shepherds know
His song allures them yet beyond the fields of snow.

O climbing shepherd, I would follow thee!
Over the dizzy heights,
Beyond the lonely pass,
Thy piping leads; the path I always see!
I see thee not, alas!
Because of death's rude shock ;
Yet thou, dear shepherd, still art shepherding thy flock.