“Where are thy footmen and thy horse?
They are in the woods, treading all down:
Dry twigs, and lily of the valley in bloom.
Master Sun makes all shine,
Their ruddy warrior faces,
The polished rumps of their horses;
Count Ludwig winds his horn:
They hear it. Softly beat the drum.
“Full trot, bridle loose!
Speed of the lightning, speed of the cloud: