Half-Awake I Walked A Dimly-Seen Sweet Hawthorn Lane Until Sleep Came; I Lingered At A Gate And Talked A Little With A Lonely Lamb. He Told Me Of The Great Still Night, Of Calm Starlight, And Of The Lady Moon, Who'D Stoop For A Kiss Sometimes; Of Grass As Soft As Sleep, Of Rhymes The Tired Flowers Sang: The Ageless April Tales Of How, When Sheep Grew Old, As Their Faith Told, They Went Without A Pang To Far Green Fields, Where Fall Perpetual Streams That Call To Deathless Nightingales. And Then I Saw, Hard By, A Shepherd Lad With Shining Eyes, And Round Him Gathered One By One Countless Sheep, Snow-White; More And More They Crowded With Tender Cries, Till All The Field Was Full Of Voices And Of Coming Sheep. Countless They Came, And I Watched, Until Deep As Dream-Fields Lie I Was Asleep.