Sheep in a Storm

The storm comes slowly up the skies. 
The valley in its shadow lies,
Yet still a light as faint as hope 
Lies all along the sheep-trimmed slope 
And fain would save the distant tower 
From darkness yet another hour,
But vainly from the tempest flies. 

The herons from the marsh have gone, 
Beholding how the dark draws on. 
The beech-tree yonder on the hill,
Where silly sheep are feeding still, 
'Twixt light and lightning shuddering stands, 
A landmark between alien lands — 
Each leaf aghast in the hot breath 
That whispers to all trees of death. 

The sheep feed stolidly, nor know 
How near their heads the lightnings go. 
The old tower not more careless stands 
Of human wrath and human hands 
Than these meek things that without fear 
The lightnings see, the thunders hear,
Nor cease from feeding to and fro.