And he rides a pale horse through the cold humid air!
Now he resteth himself ’neath an old dry tree,
Where the moss hath grown for a century:
He feeds his steed with grass that grew rank
On the field where warriors in battle sank;
Bedabbled with blood, it thick grew, and strong,
And to Death’s pale horse doth of right belong!
Gone is the beauty from violet blue,
For the look of Death hath pierced it through;
And the crocus that bloomed near the old dry tree,