 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xxix
SHEEP IN A STORM
The herons from the marsh have gone,
Beholding how the dark draws on.
The beech-tree yonder on the hill,
Where silly sheep are feeding still,
'Twixt light and lightning shuddering stands,
A landmark between alien lands—
Each leaf aghast in the hot breath
That whispers to all trees of death.
Beholding how the dark draws on.
The beech-tree yonder on the hill,
Where silly sheep are feeding still,
'Twixt light and lightning shuddering stands,
A landmark between alien lands—
Each leaf aghast in the hot breath
That whispers to all trees of death.
The sheep feed stolidly, nor know
How near their heads the lightnings go;
The old tower not more careless stands
Of human wrath and human hands
Than these meek things that without fear
The lightnings see, the thunders hear,
Nor cease from feeding to and fro.
How near their heads the lightnings go;
The old tower not more careless stands
Of human wrath and human hands
Than these meek things that without fear
The lightnings see, the thunders hear,
Nor cease from feeding to and fro.
| Dirge for Aoine and other poems | |