They pity me who have grown old,—
So old, mine eyes may not behold
If any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me, because, alas!
I lie and dream among the grass,
And let the herds unheeded pass.
They deem I must be sorrowing,
Because I note not when the Spring
Is over me and everything.
They know not why I am forlorn,—
How could they know?—They were not born
When he rode here that April morn.
They were not living when he came
Into this valley, swift like flame,—
Perchance they have not heard his name!
My men were very valiant men—
(Alas, that I had only ten!
These people were not living then.)
But when one is not yet awake
His banner is not hard to take,
His spears are easy things to break.
And dazed men are not hard to slay
When many foes, as strong as they,
With swords and spears come down their way.
This valley now has quiet grown;
And I lie here content, alone,
Dreaming of things that I have known;
And count the mounds of waving grass—
(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)
And let the restless cattle pass.