Your call is heard at high noon-day,
A wistful flute across the mere;
As herdsman's whistle far away
Your call is heard at mightnight clear.
Then hear we, as you swell your keen,
Barking afar, your hounds unseen.

Your flocks the massive clouds of grey,
And all four wings, your eager hounds,
Awhile do pen them ere they stray
And scatter once more out of bounds,
A mute and restless drove on high
Amid the shielings of the sky.