Down from the mesa's wind-blown height,
While sunset fires the western steep,
Toward the low shelters of the night
The herder guides his sheep.
They huddle by, sun-drowsed and mute,
As following some magic flute
Four thousand banded sheep, and more,
Across the dusty desert floor.
How many ages, long since hid,
Mankind has shepherded his flocks!
On far Judean plains or mid
The Attic hillside rocks
And here today they seem to wear
An undefined, sweet ancient air,
Shuffling through the sunset glow
As through a world of long ago.