It was the strangest dream I ever had.
It was the dream that drove me to be mad.
I dreamed I stood upon the race-course here,
Watching a blinding rainstorm blowing clear,
And as it blew away I said aloud,
'That rain will make soft going on the ploughed.'
And instantly I saw the whole great course,
The grass, the brooks, the fences toppt with gorse,
Gleam in the sun; and all the ploughland shone
Blue, like a marsh, though now the rain had gone.
And in my dream I said, 'That plough will be
Terrible work for some, but not for me.
Not for Right Royal.'
And a voice said, 'No
Not for Right Royal.'
And I looked, and lo
There was Right Royal, speaking, at my side.
The horse's very self, and yet his hide
Was like, what shall I say? like pearl on fire,
A white soft glow of burning that did twire
Like soft white-heat with every breath he drew.
A glow, with utter brightness running through;
Most splendid, though I cannot make you see.
His great crest glittered as he looked at me
Criniered with spitting sparks; he stamped the ground
All cock and fire, trembling like a hound,
And glad of me, and eager to declare
His horse's mind.
And I was made aware
That, being a horse, his mind could only say
Few things to me. He said, 'It is my day,
My day, to-day; I shall not have another.'
And as he spoke he seemed a younger brother
Most near, and yet a horse, and then he grinned
And tossed his crest and crinier to the wind
And looked down to the Water with an eye
All fire of soul to gallop dreadfully.
All this was strange, but then a stranger thing
Came afterwards. I woke all shivering
With wonder and excitement, yet with dread
Lest the dream meant that Royal should be dead,
Lest he had died and come to tell me so.
I hurried out; no need to hurry, though;
There he was shining like a morning star.
Now hark. You know how cold his manners are,
Never a whinny for his dearest friend.
To-day he heard me at the courtyard end,
He left his breakfast with a shattering call,
A View Halloo, and, swinging in his stall,
Ran up to nuzzle me with signs of joy.
It staggered Harding and the stable-boy.
And Harding said, 'What's come to him to-day?
He must have had a dream he beat the bay.'
Now that was strange; and, what was stranger, this.
I know he tried to say those words of his,
'It is my day'; and Harding turned to me,
'It is his day to-day, that's plain to see.'
Right Royal nuzzled at me as he spoke.
That staggered me. I felt that I should choke.
It came so pat upon my unsaid thought,
I asked him what he meant.
He answered 'Naught.
It only came into my head to say.
But there it is. To-day's Right Royal's day.'
That was the dream. I cannot put the glory
With which it filled my being, in a story.
No one can tell a dream.
Now to confess.
The dream made daily life a nothingness,
Merely a mould which white-hot beauty fills,
Pure from some source of passionate joys and skills.
And being flooded with my vision thus,
Certain of winning, puffed and glorious,
Walking upon this earth-top like a king,
My judgment went. I did a foolish thing,
I backed myself to win with all I had.
Now that it's done I see that it was mad,
But still, I had to do it, feeling so.
That is the full confession; now you know."
SHE
The thing is done, and being done, must be.
You cannot hedge. Would you had talked with me
Before you plunged. But there, the thing is done.