Sheepie, Sheepie

Sheepie, Sheepie, almost white
Standing in the field at night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy woolly symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Focuses your sheepie eyes?
To what things dare you aspire
What sheepish goals set you afire?

And what strange mysterious skill
Could forge thy woolly sheepie will
And when that will began to wilt
Who then felt the pang of guilt?

What design could fain explain
The white cloud which evolved thy brain?
Where the reason, what dread grip
Felt your scant attention slip?

When the stars threw down their spears
To spark in you your sheepish fears
Did He smile his work to see
Did He who made the lion make thee?

Sheepie, Sheepie, almost white
Standing in the field at night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy woolly symmetry?