Sheepfold. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

The sheep were in the fold at night,
And now a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

How anxiously the mother tries,
With every tender care,
To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

The hailstorm of the east is fled,
She seems with joy to swell,
Whilst ever as she bends her head,
I hear the tinkling bell.

So while for me a mother's prayer
Ascends to heaven above,
May I repay her tender care
With gratitude and love!

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

The Bird's Nest. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Morley's Farewell To The Cottage Of Isaak Walton.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Inscribed To The Marchioness Of Lansdowne

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The River Wainsbeck

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sheepfold. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

The sheep were in the fold at night,
And now a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

How anxiously the mother tries,
With every tender care,
To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

The hailstorm of the east is fled,
She seems with joy to swell,
Whilst ever as she bends her head,
I hear the tinkling bell.

So while for me a mother's prayer
Ascends to heaven above,
May I repay her tender care
With gratitude and love!

William Lisle Bowles

The Idle Shepherd Boys

The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind, or done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river...

William Wordsworth

The Sheep

The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
And is both singular and plural,
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, A flock of sheeps.

The Sheep is gentle, meek and mild,
And led in herds by man or child,
Being less savage than the rabbit,
Sheep are gregarious by habit.

The Sheep grows wool and thus promotes
The making of vests, pants and coats,
Vests, pants and coats and woolen cloths
Provide good food for hungry moths.

With vegetables added to
The Sheep, we get our mutton stew,
Experiments long since revealed
The Sheep should first be killed and peeled.

Thus, with our debt to them so deep,
All men should cry Praise be for Sheep!
And, if we happen to be shepherds,
Praise be theyre not as fierce as leopards!

Ellis Parker Butler

The Sheep In Heaven.

"Come to the window, mother!
    Look out, and you will see
How fast these little clouds sail on,
    Above our old elm tree!

"And tell me, dearest mother,
    Are these the sheep of heaven,
That in that land are feeding,
    From morning until even?

"How soft and white and shining!
    Oh! say, dear mother, there
Is everything so gentle,
    So lovely and so fair?"

"We cannot see them, darling,
    The sheep of heaven, here;
And far more beautiful than this
    Does that bright land appear.

"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
    Nor tongue of man can tell
The glories of that home above,
    Where all the good shall dwell."

H. P. Nichols

Wandered

The wind blows shrill along the hill,
--Black is the night and cold--
The sky hangs low with its weight of snow,
And the drifts are deep on the wold.
But what care I for wind or snow?
And what care I for the cold?
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

The beasts are safely gathered in,
--Black is the night and cold--
They are snug and warm, and safe from harm,
In stall and byre and fold.
And the dogs and I, by the blazing fire,
Care nought for the snow and the cold.
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

The barns are bursting with their store
Of grain like yellow gold;
A full, fat year h...

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

The Lambs Of Grasmere, 1860

The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
    Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
    Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother's milk
    Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers' bones made white for miles
    The pastureless wet pasture grounds.

Day after day, night after night,
    From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
    Instead of nature's nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
    Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
    And rubbed it with a woolly head.

Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
    It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails

Christina Georgina Rossetti