With rain in the face
And leathern thongs moist
In the hands, where halt
The mud-scattered journey
For the crust, the salt
Of bread upon the tongue?
Where turn from the flow
Of day slanted greyly
Toward earth, toward the dark
Shaken upon this rank of hills?
Where turn for the spark
Of eyes burnt warmly?
To the stone, to the mud
With hoofs busy clattering
In a fog-wrinkled spreading
Of waters? Halt not. Stay not.
Ride the storm with no ending
On a road unarriving.