The Fallen Herd
No thunder and clatter,
The shape of their mournful low
Drifts over them.
A feckless dog,
Red tongue lolling, spouting drivel,
Got them here.
Where there is naught but bristlegrass and vetch.
A shabby longing, and the dog,
Drove them on.
Cattle who could not think for themselves.
“If need be occupy a throne where nobody can call you crone.” Robert Frost