Ere the black riders disperse and depart.
The dawn is late, but the dawn comes round,
And Fleetfoot Jean has the wind of a hound.
The hue and cry of the Kelpie horde
Was growing and grim on that white seaboard.
It rolled and gathered and died and grew
Far off to the rear; a smile thereto
I turned; a fathom behind my ear
A rider rode with a shadowy leer.