There is a time of charm and chime,
And this is Sabbath evening time.
There is a place of dear content,
This is the midmost field in Kent.
This is the time and this the place
Where boughs droop down with dews of grace;
Where under hedges hung with sleep,
Through atmospheres of music creep
Sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep.
Here a great Lord of Magic comes
Fanfarronading with far drums,
And deep athwart the night he throws
His banners of white fire and rose.
From the great town unto the sea,
He thunders through his empiry.
But when his drums are heard no more,
The quiet is quiet as before.
And there's a drowsy dreamy scent
Drenches the midmost field in Kent.
Neither more quickly nor more slow,
Shadows come, shadows go.
Shadows that reap while others sow,
Shadows that sow while others reap,
Shadows whose windy singings keep,
Sheep like ghosts and ghosts like sheep.