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.