They come each morning to the gate, 
are milked and wander off to feed; 
six cows, a calf and in the lead 
a brindled bull, old, fat sedate. 

And every evening they are back, 
loafing along the quarter-mile 
of dusty lane in single file, 
the old bull trailing up the track. 

I would not load with thought that brings 
meanings deep-conjured in the mind 
this quiet scene-but here I find 
the rhythm of eternal things. 

And envy him who takes his pail 
jingling to met them at the gate; 
sun-up, sun-down, that constant date 
which neither he nor they will fail. 

I envy him whose life allows 
him the cool blessedness; to stand 
and simply watch the coming and 
later the going of the cows.