And horses whose saddles are empty to-night
Are galloping wildly to left and to right.
But the bray of the trumpet that sounds the recall,
For the third time summoneth one and all.
See the black stallion is pricking his ear,
And neighs at the sound he is wont to hear.
Look, how the brown ranges up to his side,
It was ever his place when the trumpet cried.
And next the blood-flecked dapple-gray
Limps up to his place in the ranks to-day.