The Wild Ride

I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing. Cowards and laggards fall back; but alert to the saddle, Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn, galloping legion, With stirrup-cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him. The road is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; There are shapes by the way, there are things that appall or entice us: What odds? We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding! Thought’s self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb, And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sunbeam: Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing. A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, A passing salute to this world, and her pitiful beauty! We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers. I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses, All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing. We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind; We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil. Thou leadest, O God! All ’s well with Thy troopers that follow!