Among the hills of night my thoughts Go wandering lost and lorn; No rest they find, or gleam of light To solace them till morn; Stumbling they fare, and know not where Safe pasturage to win; O Shepherd Sleep, across the steep Go out and call them in! An errant flock, they follow far By bitter pools of tears, Lured on by Memory's lonely voice And tracked by stealthy fears; But wanderings cease, doubt sinks in peace, If once the fold they win; O Shepherd Sleep, across the steep Go out and call them in!
Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald (1864-1922)