The old day, dying, faintly makes

Slow wonder in the west,

And flocks of sheep, all up he hills

Seek fold s of peace and rest.

God's mercy for his wanderers

Is tender, wise and sweet;

The shepherds in the twilight hear

The sound of chiming feet.

Slow falls the curtain of the night,

Bound with the threads of stars,

And the Shepherd of all men

Lets down the evening bars.