\ V h j do they call me, I, who walk alone Up where the ruins of the world are thrown? Far over me the dark-blue ether rolled, And far below the cloud-sweeps, fold on fold. "I hear their voices, sounding through the glen Ever most blind, but lost and wandering then. My chosen, mine from all eternity. He comes imchecked, through life and death, to me But,—shepherds piping to your flocks beneath. Oh, happy maids who bind the rose-bud wreath,— All happy hands that till the fields and live. Ask not the crowning thorns that I can give.