THE FOLD
A BARE, crooked wisp, that the thin hollows hold, A mile past village chimneys, does it stand, Wind-bitten in the alway windy land; Bare, crooked, bitten by the wind — and yet a fold — And there the shepherd, at the wane of light, Drives all his master's sheep; aye, in the hour, When that the sky is like a crocus flower, And folk do make them ready for the night. So gentle is he with each little one, And with the old, so careful and so slow — They are withal so safe where they do keep — What better than to find, at set of sun, A shepherd, a walled space where I could go, And house me from the wind like any sheep?