Between Spirit, Divine, and human—This,
In last contest to stand by what it is;
Planning passages that lead nowhere, in or out,
Darkening truths, perversities of doubt;
Phœbus, if thundering, resolved and cold,
Certain of victory, ne’er quitting hold;
The other, a wild mare on a wild plain.
You heard the cold calm trainer shake the rein,
Tear mutinous mouth with the cruel bit,
Mock at the passion that resented it.