OSTARA FARM: Breeders of premium, purebred Scottish Blackface Sheep

OSTARA FLAITHRÍ 32A

 

TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;

Turn thy wild wheel thro’ sunshine, storm, and cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;

With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

 

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;

Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.

 

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;

Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate

 

Enid’s Song

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1809–1892

OSTARA FORTCHERN 38A

OSTARA ESRAS 50Z

OSTARA DOMHNALL 10Y

 

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

 

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and  odours plain and hill;

 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

 

Ode to the West Wind (1-14)

Percy Bysshe Shelley

1792–1822

 

October - and the skies are cool and gray

O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,

Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.

The dignity of woods in rich decay

Accords full well with this majestic grief

That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,

Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief

Only a robin sings from any spray.

 

And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills

White mist around the hollows of the hills,

Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees

His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees,

Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills

His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease

 

Late Autumn

William Allingham

1824-1889