Far over the green meadows of the sea
The wind comes piping, piping eerily
Before him run the little waves, his sheep
All loth to leave the far foam-flowered steep!
Piping he drives his scattered snow-white flocks
Among the purple paths of jagged rocks.
This way and that, with all their sliver bells
Chiming a tune of empty lifted shells
Beyond pale pasture lands of shining gold
He drives them safe within the covering fold
Of dusk-dark caves where all night long they cry,
Away from the sweet air and starry sky!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 31 August 1929
