Your call is heard at noon
Like a sweet flute above the moor
Like a shepherd's whistle that is hidden
Your call is heard at midnight;
Until it is heard, when your sun is strong
Bark your invisible gun.
Your flock is the bald long clouds,
And your ready gun is the four winds
Fold your moist flocks,
To scatter them once again on their way
In the restless drive, laes, earnest,
Hyd the smooth pleasures of heaven.
The Curlew
Your call is heart at mid-day
As a sweet-voiced flute above the moor,
As the whistle of an invisible shepherd
Your call is heard at midnight.
Until one hears, as your sound intensifies,
The barking of your unseen dogs.
Your sheep are the boundless clouds,
Your ready dogs the four winds
Penning your damp flocks
To scatter them again
A silent and restless herd
Across the heavens' flowing meadows.