The Last of the Flock / William Wordsworth

 In distant countries I have been,

  And yet I have not often seen

  A healthy man, a man full grown,

  Weep in the public roads alone.

  But such a one, on English ground,

  And in the broad high-way, I met;

  Along the broad high-way he came,

  His cheeks with tears were wet.

  Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;

  And in his arms a lamb he had.

  He saw me, and he turned aside,

  As if he wished himself to hide:

  Then with his coat he made essay

  To wipe those briny tears away.

  I follow'd him, and said, "My friend

  What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"

  --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,

  He makes my tears to flow.

  To-day I fetched him from the rock;

  He is the last of all my flock."

  When I was young, a single man,

  And after youthful follies ran.

  Though little given to care and thought,

  Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;

  And other sheep from her I raised,

  As healthy sheep as you might see,

  And then I married, and was rich

  As I could wish to be;

  Of sheep I numbered a full score,

  And every year increas'd my store.

  Year after year my stock it grew,

  And from this one, this single ewe,

  Full fifty comely sheep I raised,

  As sweet a flock as ever grazed!

  Upon the mountain did they feed;

  They throve, and we at home did thrive.

  --This lusty lamb of all my store

  Is all that is alive;

  And now I care not if we die,

  And perish all of poverty.

  Six children, Sir! had I to feed,

  Hard labour in a time of need!

  My pride was tamed, and in our grief,

  I of the parish ask'd relief.

  They said I was a wealthy man;

  My sheep upon the mountain fed,

  And it was fit that thence I took

  Whereof to buy us bread:

  "Do this; how can we give to you,"

  They cried, "what to the poor is due?"

  I sold a sheep as they had said,

  And bought my little children bread,

  And they were healthy with their food;

  For me it never did me good.

  A woeful time it was for me,

  To see the end of all my gains,

  The pretty flock which I had reared

  With all my care and pains,

  To see it melt like snow away!

  For me it was a woeful day.

  Another still! and still another!

  A little lamb, and then its mother!

  It was a vein that never stopp'd,

  Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.

  Till thirty were not left alive

  They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

  And I may say that many a time

  I wished they all were gone:

  They dwindled one by one away;

  For me it was a woeful day.

  To wicked deeds I was inclined,

  And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,

  And every man I chanc'd to see,

  I thought he knew some ill of me.

  No peace, no comfort could I find,

  No ease, within doors or without,

  And crazily, and wearily

  I went my work about.

  Oft-times I thought to run away;

  For me it was a woeful day.

  Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,

  As dear as my own children be;

  For daily with my growing store

  I loved my children more and more.

  Alas! it was an evil time;

  God cursed me in my sore distress,

  I prayed, yet every day I thought

  I loved my children less;

  And every week, and every day,

  My flock, it seemed to melt away.

  They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see!

  From ten to five, from five to three,

  A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;

  And then at last, from three to two;

  And of my fifty, yesterday

  I had but only one,

  And here it lies upon my arm,

  Alas! and I have none;

  To-day I fetched it from the rock;

  It is the last of all my flock.