Tilly

He travels after a winter sun, Urging the cattle along a cold red road, Calling to them, a voice they know, He drives his beasts above Cabra. The voice tells them home is warm. They moo and make brute music with their hoofs. He drives them with a flowering branch before him, Smoke pluming their foreheads. Boor, bond of the herd, Tonight stretch full by the fire! I bleed by the black stream For my torn bough!