Sheep, Look up! Sheep don't look up, nor yearn for sky; In undulant rows, they tend to grass, Noting nought but hocks and weeds and dung. The good sheep know the bellweather knows-- And do not deign to consider else-- Where green grass grows the best. So when he moves, though nudged by fear, The flock flows after him. And in that final moment when The butcher's knife Unstops his life, They learn, too late, the cost of green, Nor ever long for blue.