The surest thing there is is we are riders, And though none too successful at it, guiders, Through everything presented, land and tide And now the very air, of what we ride. What is this talked of mystery of birth But being mounted bareback on the earth? We can just see the infant up astride, His small fist buried in the bushy hide. There is our wildest mount, a headless horse. But though it runs unbridled off its course, And all our blandishments would seem defied, We have ideas yet that we haven't tried. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA by ROBERT BROWNING THE CROPPY BOY: (A BALLAD OF '98) by WILLIAM B. MCBURNEY A JAPANESE FAN by MARGARET VELEY TO HIS FRIEND IN ELYSIUM by JOACHIM DU BELLAY ON MEMORIAL DAY by EMMA BERGSTROM ON READING OF THE DEATH OF THOMAS WOLFE by MARION LOUISE BLISS FAREWELL TO A LOVER by VERA MARY BRITTAIN |