Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—thy master hath his gold—
Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold!
Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.
Schreyer