The Shepherd Of The Flock Of Dreams By William Stanley Braithwaite

He calls them out with a musical shout
From the folds that are lying nowhere;
And up they climb to the meadows of Time
Through the seasons of the slow year.
With bleat, bleat, bleat, on the road they beat,
On the great highways of vision,
Where I hear them knock, the long white flock,
With a rhythmical precision.
He follows them forth who values their worth
For the clothing of man’s desire;
And he makes no claim for pelf or fame,
For he’s far too rich to aspire.
His kingdom lies in the long sunrise
Of life, where the nations arose,
And he gathers his sheep from the fields of sleep
Where the hopes of the world repose.