Nod

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  Softly along the road of evening,
  In a twilight dim with rose,
  Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
  Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

  His drowsy flock streams on before him,
  Their fleeces charged with gold,
  To where the sun's last beam leans low
  On Nod the shepherd's fold.

  The hedge is quick and green with briar,
  From their sand the conies creep;
  And all the birds that fly in heaven
  Flock singing home to sleep.

  His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
  Yet, when night's shadows fall,
  His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
  Misses not one of all.

  His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
  The waters of no-more-pain,
  His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
  "Rest, rest, and rest again."

© Walter de la Mare