The Bucolic Bliss

The Bucolic Bliss

Along the pasture in the summer June
Where did the labouring shepherd boy lay?
On the craggy mountain he sits gazing
Where the little white fleecy lamb does graze
With the babbling rill, the hawthorn bowers 
He dozed in vale under the breezy sway
The traunt sheep shilly-shally to return
Seeing the herdsman lie, scatter remote
Cattle follows the bleat and the neck bells
Shepherd yells to wattle them in the cote
As the evening trims out diving in speed
The flock retreats from the emrald green
Huddled under the herdsman weilding staff
Rolled downhill by the bucolic pastures.

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One thought on “The Bucolic Bliss

  1. Not sure if emerald can be spelt as emrald in a poem.. or it’s a typo.
    But your lannet has visual appeal

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