The Wild Ride.
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy mane-tossing horses;
All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing,
Cowards and laggards fall back but alert to the saddle,
Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn galloping legion,
With a stirrup cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him.
The road is thro’ dolour and dread, over crags and morasses!
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appall or entice us!
What odds! We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding!