  A chestnut mare with swerves and heaves Came plunging, scattering all the crowd, She tossed her head and laughed aloud And bickered sideways past the meet. From pricking ears to mincing feet She was all tense with blood and quiver, You saw her clipt hide twitch and shiver Over her netted cords of veins. She carried Cothill, of the Sleins; A tall, black, bright-eyed handsome lad. Great power and great grace he had. Men hoped the greatest things of him, His grace made people think him slim, But he was muscled like a horse In bronze or marble for Apollo. He loved to hurry like a swallow For miles on miles of short-grassed sweet Blue-harebelled downs where dewy feet Of pure winds hurry ceaselessly. He loved the downland like a sea, The downland where the kestrels hover; The downland had him for a lover. And every other thing he loved In which a clean free spirit moved. So beautiful, he was, so bright. He looked to men like young delight Gone courting April maidenhood, That has the primrose in her blood, He on his mincing lady mare. |
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