Snow Song

Over valley, over hill,
Hark, the shepherd piping shrill,
Driving all the white flock forth,
From the far folds of the north.

Blow, wind, blow,
Weird melodies you play,
Following your flocks that go
Across the world today.

Hither, thither, up and down,
Every highway of the town,
Huddling close the white flocks all
Gather at the shepherd’s call.

Blow, wind, blow,
Upon your pipes of joy,
All your sheep the flakes of snow
And you their shepherd boy.
Frank Dempster Sherman.