For the thud of hoofs where the path lay dun;
For a cloud that grew in a moment’s course
To the sweat and speed of a flying horse.
Though the dust lay white upon spur and shoe,
On the steaming flanks, and the trooper’s blue,
When the ride was done and the reins hung slack,
And he swung her up to the bay’s wet back
And kissed her brows in an arch of black!
Clung together, she heard him say,
“Three months more till our wedding day!