When a bank of black clouds rose and darkened the sky;
The bright moon was hidden, and hidden each mark,
And I came near to missing the ford in the dark:
As we left the cold river I patted my steed,
And urged him again to his uttermost speed.
On, on still I rode, as the wild huntsman rides:
In the dawn I could just see the foam-covered sides,
See the head sinking low, see the staggering knees,
Feel the shudder that shook him as wind shakes the trees;
Yet onward he struggled with fast-failing strength,