Five little sheep on a hillside grazed
Where the raggedest daisies grew,
And just overhead, in a sunny space
Were five little clouds in the blue;
And the five little clouds in the sky looked down
On the five little sheep below
And they called out to them in a friendly way
“O little white flock, hello!”
“We look alike—we must be alike;
Now isn’t that plain to you?
Come up with us in the pasture sky
O little white flock,—please do!”
But the five little sheep on the hill looked sad
And nibbled the grass instead;
And each one smothered a sorrowful sigh
Shaking his wise little head;
And they called to the flock in the sky, “O no;
Such union would never do;
We must be fed on the greenest grass
While your meadow grass is blue;”
“And how would we look when trying to fly
With hard little feet for wings?
Sheep of the earth and sheep of the sky
Were made for different things.”
And the little white flock in the sky looked down
On the little white flock below
And they said to themselves—“How queer; when we
Resemble each other so!”
