Ernest G Moll
They come each morning to the gate,
are milked and wander off to feed;
six cows, a calf and in the lead
a brindled bull, old, fat sedate.
And every evening they are back,
loafing along the quarter-mile
of dusty lane in single file,
the old bull trailing up the track.
I would not load with thought that brings
meanings deep-conjured in the mind
this quiet scene-but here I find
the rhythm of eternal things.
And envy him who takes his pail
jingling to met them at the gate;
sun-up, sun-down, that constant date
which neither he ...