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Sheepfold
This would I give thee to-night
Ere thine eyes seek sleep —
Down from snow-grass to tussock
The red wing’s sweep;
Kea’s wing, sharp and stubborn,
Ranging the valley,
Where the plumed heads of the toi-toi
Meet at riverheads’ rally;
Peaks of a thousand snows
White in their waiting;
Loose in the beds of torrents
High boulders grating;
No scent sweeter or finer
Than the dark smell of earth;
No cry clearer or kinder
Than ewe crying on birth;
No hue less sullen
Than the burning gorse-petal —
Sky, wing and sheepfold
Sculptured in metal.
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