THE SAD SHEPHERD
 
 THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,
 And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
 Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
 And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
 And he called loudly to the stars to bend
 From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
 Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
 And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
 Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.!
 The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still,
 Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
 He fled the persecution of her glory
 And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
 Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
 But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
 The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
 And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
 Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
 And thought, I will my heavy story tell
 Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
 Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
 And my own talc again for me shall sing,
 And my own whispering words be comforting,
 And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
 Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
 But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
 Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
 Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.