The Black-Faced Sheep

By Donald Hall b. 1928 Donald Hall
Ruminant pillows! Gregarious soft boulders!

If one of you found a gap in a stone wall,
the rest of you—rams, ewes, bucks, wethers, lambs;   
mothers and daughters, old grandfather-father,   
cousins and aunts, small bleating sons—
followed onward, stupid
as sheep, wherever
your leader’s sheep-brain wandered to.

My grandfather spent all day searching the valley   
and edges of Ragged Mountain,
calling “Ke-day!” as if he brought you salt,   
“Ke-day! Ke-day!”

*         *         *

When the shirt wore out, and darns in the woolen   
shirt needed darning,
a woman in a white collar
cut the shirt into strips and braided it,   
as she braided her hair every morning.

In a hundred years
the knees of her great-granddaughter
crawled on a rug made from the wool of sheep   
whose bones were mud,
like the bones of the woman, who stares   
from an oval in the parlor.

*         *         *

I forked the brambly hay down to you
in nineteen-fifty. I delved my hands deep   
in the winter grass of your hair.

When the shearer cut to your nakedness in April   
and you dropped black eyes in shame,
hiding in barnyard corners, unable to hide,   
I brought grain to raise your spirits,
and ten thousand years
wound us through pasture and hayfield together,   
threads of us woven
together, three hundred generations
from Africa’s hills to New Hampshire’s.

*         *         *

You were not shrewd like the pig.   
You were not strong like the horse.   
You were not brave like the rooster.

Yet none of the others looked like a lump of granite   
that grew hair,
and none of the others
carried white fleece as soft as dandelion seed   
around a black face,
and none of them sang such a flat and sociable song.

*         *         *

Now the black-faced sheep have wandered and will not return,   
even if I should search the valleys   
and call “Ke-day,” as if I brought them salt.
Now the railroad draws
a line of rust through the valley. Birch, pine, and maple   
lean from cellarholes
and cover the dead pastures of Ragged Mountain   
except where machines make snow
and cables pull money up hill, to slide back down.

*         *         *

At South Danbury Church twelve of us sit—
cousins and aunts, sons—
where the great-grandfathers of the forty-acre farms   
filled every pew.
I look out the window at summer places,
at Boston lawyers’ houses
with swimming pools cunningly added to cowsheds,   
and we read an old poem aloud, about Israel’s sheep,   
old lumps of wool, and we read

that the rich farmer, though he names his farm for himself,   
takes nothing into his grave;
that even if people praise us, because we are successful,   
we will go under the ground
to meet our ancestors collected there in the darkness;   
that we are all of us sheep, and death is our shepherd,   
and we die as the animals die.

Donald Hall, “The Black-Faced Sheep” from Old and New Poems. Copyright © 1990 by Donald Hall. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

Source: Old and New Poems (1990)

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Poet Donald Hall b. 1928

POET’S REGION U.S., New England

Subjects Religion, Nature, Family & Ancestors, Pets, Relationships

 Donald  Hall


Donald Hall is considered one of the major American poets of his generation. His poetry explores the longing for a more bucolic past and reflects the poet’s abiding reverence for nature. Although Hall gained early success with his first collection, Exiles and Marriages (1955), his more recent poetry is generally regarded as the best of his career. Often compared favorably with such writers as James Dickey, Robert Bly, and James . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Religion, Nature, Family & Ancestors, Pets, Relationships

POET’S REGION U.S., New England

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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