No More Learning

Often thus,
Upon a hillside will the woolly flocks
Be           their goodly food and creeping about
Whither the summons of the grass, begemmed
With the fresh dew, is calling, and the lambs,
Well filled, are frisking, locking horns in sport:
Yet all for us seem blurred and blent afar--
A glint of white at rest on a green hill.