Yes; but surely you have heard
Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow,
Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd
Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred
For victory—the rare Kentucky speed
That wins the races?
The Maiden.
Yes; I’ve heard it said
They were good worthy horses.—But indeed
I know not much of horses.
The Lady.
Then the land—
The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass,
The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand
That scarce an English dukedom may surpass
In velvet beauty—while its royal sweep
Over the country miles and miles away,
Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep
Their distance from each other, proud array
Of single elms that stand apart to show
How gracefully their swaying branches grow,
While little swells of turf roll up and fall
Like waves of summer sea, and over all
You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass
Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.—
But you will see it.
The Maiden.
No; I cannot stay
But a few hours—at most, a single day.
The Lady (unheeding).
I think I like the best,
Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed,
The Arab courser of our own new West,
The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed
Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins
The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand
In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins,
And those slow, cautious judges on the stand,
Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill
That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?
The Maiden.