  Where are you going, you pretty riders?— To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon, Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless, Soon, very soon. Where are you faring to, you proud Hectors? Through battle, out of battle, under the grass, Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust, Clouded, you pass. I’m a pretty rider, I’m a proud Hector, I as you a little am pretty and proud; I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise, So sing we loud— “Out beyond the dust lies mystery of moonrise, We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun, Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer, Riding as one.” |
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