Poetry
The Cattle
As we sped homewards under a starry sky, Bythe rich pastures, the sleeping and quiet trees, What are these little lights, tossed low and high.
As a lantern swung in a man's hand ? What are these ?
Who are these corning ? A soundless multitude Swerving away from the light ? These are eyes, eyes, eyes. The eyes of the frightened cattle, red as blood, Pass into the night and its mysteries.
Under the holy mountains the pastures keep Dew and honey and quiet breathing, deep rest, By the side of the milky mother the Iambs are asleep Till thecuckoo calls ; the night has Rinother's breast.
But these that have passed us by ; they go, they go, Driven with curses and goads, unpitied, unstayed, To the slaughterhouse and the blood and at last the blow.— The ghostly cattle passing have made me afraid.
- - KATHARINE 1%;NAN.
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