From their folded mates they wander far, <br /> Their ways seem harsh and wild; <br />They follow the beck of a baleful star, <br /> Their paths are dream-beguiled. <br /> <br />Yet haply they sought but a wider range, <br /> Some loftier mountain-slope, <br />And little recked of the country strange <br /> Beyond the gates of hope. <br /> <br />And haply a bell with a luring call <br /> Summoned their feet to tread <br />Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall <br /> And the lurking snare are spread. <br /> <br />Maybe, in spite of their tameless days <br /> Of outcast liberty, <br />They're sick at heart for the homely ways <br /> Where their gathered brothers be. <br /> <br />And oft at night, when the plains fall dark <br /> And the hills loom large and dim, <br />For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, <br /> And their souls go out to him. <br /> <br />Meanwhile, "Black sheep! Black sheep!" we cry, <br /> Safe in the inner fold; <br />And maybe they hear, and wonder why, <br /> And marvel, out in the cold.<br /><br />Richard Burton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-sheep-4/
