Cattle Bells

How clear tonight the far jing-jangling bells

Of Beaulieu's herd, the melody that wells,

Tuneful as stony water, from the nook

In the sweet-grass marsh of Alder Brook.

What tranquil strength of earth their tones disclose:

The peace of stars like quiet-falling snows,

Of forests slumbering, soundless, but for the fox

Stepping among the slippery rocks.

What world unsullied, free of guile and snare,

What valley of contentment they declare;

A valley soothing as its bullfrog's croak,

Serene as the one slim drifting smoke;

A valley of waters that softly talk of dreams,

Of the slow sweet enterprise of little streams,

Of their solemn concern with every woodland thing

Lingering to bathe a paw, a wing;

Lew Sarett

Of the veery, thick with sleep, who stretched his throat

And tossed in the brook a single pebbly note;

Of the foam-flecked doe who buried her muzzle, drank,

And dropped in the brookmints on the bank. . . .

I shall lie down and sleep . . . sleep now...

And yield to the cool bells this fevered brow-

Knowing grief will not stalk me, nor intrude

Longer tonight upon my brood.

Now that the mellow bells have given birth

To the gentle certainties of night and earth,

I shall lie down and sleep, sleep tranquilly,

And trouble, trouble will fall from me.

Lew Sarett