Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep--one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by one four-footed pattering up and over--one by one wiggling their stub tails as they take the short jump and go over--one by one silently unless for the multitudinous drumming of their hoofs as they move on and go over--thousands and thousands of them in the grey haze of evening just after sundown--one by one slanting in a long line to pass over the hill--
I am the slow, long-legged Sleepyman and I love you sheep in Persia, California, Argentine, Australia, or Spain--you are the thoughts that help me when I, the Sleepyman, lay my hands on the eyelids of the children of the world at eight o'clock every night--you thousands and thousands of sheep in a procession of dusk making an endless multitudinous drumming on the hills with your hoofs.
