In The Fold Mabel Christian Forbes, 1929 Wearily the mist trails low, and white Over the wet sky. You can hear the burns are sucking at Their courses. Weariedly the dog, and then the shepherd Round the corner, Drag crook and tail. The sheep are like poor wraiths. Soon the fire crackles in the cot hid in the shoulder Of the hill, and warm, wedges fleeces snuggle in the fold. Where is then the sheep-dog? where are his panting? . . . "He pants no longer." Does his spirit wander up among the mountain-sides to drink the sucking runlets? "He climbs no more; scours not now or ever the craggy sheep tracks." Where is now is spirit? In the cot beside his master? "No. I see his spirit now. It lies On the green field Where the sheep Are folded --- It is the fold."