Over valley, over hill,
Hark, the shepherd piping shrill!
Driving all the white flocks forth
From the far folds of the North.
Blow, Wind, blow ;
Weird melodies you play,
Following your flocks that go
Across the world to-day.
How they hurry, how they crowd
When they hear the music loud I
Grove and lane and meadow full
Sparkle with their shining wool.
Blow, Wind, blow
Until the forests ring:
Teach the eaves the tunes you know,
And make the chimney sing!
Hither, thither, up and down
Every highway of the town,
Huddling close, the white flocks all
Gather at the shepherd s call.
Blow, Wind, blow
Upon your pipes of joy;
All your sheep the flakes of snow
And you their shepherd boy!
This poem is in the public domain.