David was a shepherd lad, beautiful as you, Sang within a shadowed tent to sooth a king's unrest. Oh, the bashful years in which he made the songs and hoarded them, By the other shepherd lads all unguessed. David's song is in a book, for stupid folk to bow before, Folk who think it wisdom, which is only lovely song. You are kin to him, you see beauty in a little moon, In branches bent to lash you with each faint gray thong. David, when he found his songs -- did he use to practice them For a little shepherd maid who marveled at each line? When he left his humble task, and drew the king from weariness -- She who heard the songs first, was her pride like mine? |