For the white road stretches ahead,
And our spears have a vision of red,
And our horses champ with their bits, and rear at the way.
The tussocks of grass in the glare
Are brown as a dream-maiden's hair,
And over them, white in the sun, the spears of Kan-Mar;
The curbs, and the froth at the lips—
The bridle chains snapping like whips,
And our plumes tossed red, and scenting the heels of war.
The eyes that twinkle and burn—