Sheep

From where I stand the sheep stand still

As stones against the stony hill.

The stones are gray

And so are they.

And both are weatherworn and round,

Leading the eye back to the ground.

Two mingled flocks—

The sheep, the rocks.

And still no sheep stirs from its place

Or lifts its Babylonian face.

Robert Francis

From Robert Francis: Collected Poems:
1936-1976, University of Massachusetts
Press,  © 1985.  Reprinted by permission.