Return! return! the Shepherd's voice is calling
From breezy heights and pastures fresh and sweet;
O'er the fair landscape are the shadows falling,
And earth and sky in dim embraces meet.
Like fleecy clouds, in soft and woolly tumult,
The cherished flocks, with bleatings oft, ascend,
And on the quiet air the tinkling sheep-bells
With evening lullabies their music blend.
And thus they rest, in green and pleasant pastures,
And thus at eve for quiet folds they yearn.
O soul of man, so weary of thy wandering,
Unto thy resting-place return, return!
Unto the ark the dove returned at evening,
Weary and baffled, by the flood distrest;
He who was rest, the wanderer receiving,
Folded her pinions on his tender breast.
Weary thy pinions, baffled, restless spirit,
Made for the Infinite, for him we yearn;
O'er land and sea his voice is ever calling —
"Unto thy rest, O wanderer, return!"