OSTARA FARM: Breeders of premium, purebred Scottish Blackface Sheep



WHO but is pleased to watch the moon on high

Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds

Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty

Renounces, till among the scattered clouds

One with its kindling edge declares that soon

Will reappear before the uplifted eye

A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,

To glide in open prospect through clear sky.

Pity that such a promise e'er should prove

False in the issue, that yon seeming space

Of sky should be in truth the stedfast face

Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move

(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)

The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.


Who But Is Pleased To Watch The Moon On High

William Wordsworth

(1770 – 1850)



THOU art the joy of age:

Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls.

Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls,

And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage

To gather song from radiance, in his chair

Sits by the door; and sitteth there

His soul within him, like a child that lies

Half dreaming, with half-open eyes,

At close of a long afternoon in summer—

High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where

The raven is almost the only comer;

Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment

At thy celestial descent,

Through rifted loops alighting on the gold

That waves its bloom in many an airy rent:

So dreams the old man’s soul, that is not old,

But sleepy ’mid the ruins that enfold. 

Light (1-17)

George Macdonald



THE FROST has settled down upon the trees

And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies

Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old

Romantic stories now no more to be told.


The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,

Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught

In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront

Implacable winter’s long, cross-questioning brunt.


Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?

Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch?—

It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,

Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.


The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.

Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all

Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought

Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.


Winter in the Boulevard

D.H. Lawrence