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And again: “As when a vulture on Imaus bred, Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, Dislodging from a region scarce of prey, To gorge the flesh of lambs and yeanling kids On hills where flocks are fed, flies towards the springs Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams; But in his way lights on the barren plains Of Sericana, where Chineses drive With sails and wind their cany waggons light.”

But when, at length, Aurora, day-spring’s daughter rosy-palm’d Look’d forth, then, kindling fire, his flocks he milk’d In order, and her yeanling kid or lamb Thrust under each.

Then down he sat, And as he milk’d his ewes and bleating goats All in their turns, her yeanling gave to each; Coagulating, then, with brisk dispatch, The half of his new milk, he thrust the curd Into his wicker sieves, but stored the rest In pans and bowls—his customary drink.

Come, I’ll undress you, and tuck you into bed: And you’ll sleep sound, my lamb, as sound and snug As a yeanling in a maud-neuk.

For love the high song taught him: love that turns God's heart toward man as man's to Godward; love That life and death and life are fashioned of, From the first breath that burns Half kindled on the flowerlike yeanling's lip, So light and faint that life seems like to slip, To that yet weaklier drawn When sunset dies of night's devouring dawn.