Am driving the herds of the pine,
Grant to my brother what suits his soul,
But no bellowing brutes in mine.
He would wince to wade and wallow—and I
hate a horse or steer!
But we stand the kings of herders—he for
There and I for Here.
Though he rides with Death behind him when
he rounds the wild stampede,
I will chop the jamming king-log and I’ll match