A Horse

"Giddy up, Bournfield. Atta, boy! Giddy up!"

Where barns are swiveling golden manes,

And silver crests, and cantering ponies,

Where life is in the meadow,

The meadow in the midst of life,

The radiant silver of Little Spikes,

A brighter hue of familiar 'bites'.

A stable is a quaint old tale,

All wood and splinters,

All dusty and dingy,

All traits adding to its grandeur,

Including the fine young mare that rests inside.

Je me suis trompé,

Who RESTS inside.

For she breathes the 'dinge',

And grunts the dust,

The splinters chisel her tail.

And feeds on carrots come morn,

A dull-grey dressing per pail.

I sometimes wonder,

The dreams that would fill,

Her heart through day and night.

Whether in sleep, fleet or flight,

A creamy still of the wintry till...

The humble lady, from dream to dream,

As these grow louder, and the fields hazier,

Grapples with her giving limbs,

With unfamiliar faces, every fifth week,

With a routine that tries her and she tires of.

 

Who says the joy of the breaker-in is unparalleled,

When the bit fits and the girdle hurts,

When the saddle fastens and the whip cracks?

When there is a much nobler creature,

Investing her patience for a return of simple faith,

Living each breath, not as if it were her last,

But as if it were her first.

What honesty in her hopes!

And so it is true happiness

For the horse when she finds

That there is some man whose honesty parallels hers. 

 -In the eyes of Anna Sewell