Chapter 3 No.3

Upon a spacious meadow play

Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue;

And as we see them move to-day,

The man most aged saw them too.

They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill

That never dries, their life is drawn;

A shepherd watches o'er them still,

With curved and beauteous silver horn.

He drives them out through gates of gold,

And every night their number counts;

Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold,

One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.

A hound attends him faithfully,

A nimble ram precedes the way;

Canst thou point out that flock to me,

And who the shepherd, canst thou say?