Michael's Sheepfold

The sheepfold, on the lonely moor,
Was built with stones of grey,
And round it, the wild winds did roar,
Throughout the livelong day.

But Michael sat within the fold,
A man of sorrow deep,
And watched his sheep, as they grew old,
And knew not how to weep.

For he had lost his only son,
And all his hopes were gone,
And he did sit, from sun to sun,
A dweller there alone.