Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain

So steady and still, leaning low to the mane,

With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein,

Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose,

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,

There was work to be done, there was death in the air,

And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang

Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang