The wind-drawn manes
And supple knees of the stallions fly the gate
Of hills to smooth meadows beyond the mountain wall;
And the strong mares drink in quivering haste
From the limestone waters, turning their anxious heads
Toward greener shores of grass, toward clattering passings
Of the fleet and proud.
Down the mountain lanes,
Down the heavy-hipped ridges stricken and unforested,
They have gone with the streams unhalted and draining
The narrow valleys of the flesh of earth.
O slow the hand and fleet the hoof upon the mountainside
Where men within their prisoning hills have stayed.
Swift are their hearts upon this journey never made.