“NOW I WILL SADDLE THE SWIFT BROWN MARE”

Now I will saddle the swift brown mare, And ride, and ride, to the sunset’s death; With the wind like the hands of a star in my hair, And the white frost snatching my breath! —Shut the door where the old books stand Row on row in their musty cowls: Monks, with a scourge and a cross in each hand: Apes, and asses, and snakes, and owls! —Shut the door where the Gossips sit, Hugging the hearth, with their brew of tea: Picking men’s lives up, bit by bit, Dropping them dourly and damningly. —Shut the door where my own Moods lie Faint and white on a silver bed: Delicate damsels, dreams that die, Petals from pale white poppies shed. Oh, I will saddle the swift brown mare, And ride, and ride, to the forge-fire-sky! —Might I shoe her with stars that hang white-hot there, Cooled in the sea-troughs, hissing high! Might I spur her with goads of the ice that grows Sharp as steel on the mountain-lake! Might I shout her the fierce gay song that blows Out of the west where the sun-ranks break! —Look, I am weary of “Thus,—and So,”— Mantles that mildew and swords that rust; Talk and trouble and meanness. Oh, Why should I stay to be choked with dust? So, I will saddle the swift brown mare, And ride, and ride, to the red world’s death. With the wind like the hands of a star in my hair, And the quick frost catching my breath!