They come each morning to the gate, are milked and wander off to feed; six cows, a calf and in the lead a brindled bull, old, fat sedate. And every evening they are back, loafing along the quarter-mile of dusty lane in single file, the old bull trailing up the track. I would not load with thought that brings meanings deep-conjured in the mind this quiet scene-but here I find the rhythm of eternal things. And envy him who takes his pail jingling to met them at the gate; sun-up, sun-down, that constant date which neither he nor they will fail. I envy him whose life allows him the cool blessedness; to stand and simply watch the coming and later the going of the cows.