R. H. W. DILLARD  |  From What Is Owed the Dead

Sheep

Caedmon’s dream (c. 658-680), herdsman, alone
In outer dark, necessary angel’s command, neither wrote
Nor read (nor sung, left hall in shame), heben til hrofe,
Roofed only by heaven, praised hefaenricaes uard,
Great God, heaven’s shepherd, “first English Christian
Poet,” not first poetic shepherd, Theocritus, ,
Centuries (c. 270 BCE) before, contenders, love’s lamenters,
Unlike you, not really herders, only “got up as poets
In farmer suits,” thoughts muffled in wool, thick tufts caught
By wind and wire, Skye (06/24/87), Virgil, too (39 BCE),
“Tu modo nascenti puero,” pastoral prophecy or just more
Wool gathering, shipped sheep, “sniffed, poor things, for their
Green fields,” cry, fall ill, one by one by one, die, wooly
Bundles, mere mutton, and yet, drowsy herdsman, you heard
“That great shepherd of the sheep,” love’s continuing
Demand, “feed my lambs,” no doubt, “feed my sheep.”  

   From What Is Owed the Dead, Contents
   Contributor’s notes

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