But down the lane as he opened the gate
He saw them coming, one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass;
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air
An empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.