The Shepherd walked on the high Wold. Bare trees, snow patched grass.
Rounded hills, all rising from a ghostly fog.
A great quietness and then, tired,
He stood at last above the valley.
Mute tiny yellow welcoming lights
And yellow glares on distant hills.
And in his house that night
He forgot the joy of wide open spaces,
And was fraught in the small room
In Cold and poverty.
And then he remembered:
‘God is light. There is no darkness in him at all.’
If only he could bend his mind to this transcendence.
Than no unhappiness could touch him.