The Wild Ride

Louise Imogen Guiney (1861–1920)

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!