As we drove one day through the lignum swamp where the spelling horses ran, A loose horse broke from the noonday camp And trotted beside our van. We knew him then as a favourite steed, A beautiful dappled dream, The grey that went in the near-side lead In the Boss's showyard team. He swung in front of our station pair And kept in the near-side place, And trotted on with his beauty bare Of bridle or rein or trace. He led them away on the Woolshed track As a harnessed leader would, And we had not the heart to turn him back— The old grey Solitude. He slowed and stood at the paddock gate, Then guided the others through, And whinnied once for his absent mate, Then took up his task anew. He was the pick of the four good greys That had won three Cups in Bourke; His poise in the ring was past all praise, And his pluck on the road at work. He held his place to a measured inch, Left room for his swingle-bar, And quickened pace at the sandhill pinch And slowed where the deep ruts are. So he showed the way to the Five-mile tank With never a trace or tie, Lifting his feet with a showyard swank And his lean grey head held high. And whenever I think of the brave bush teams And their leaders staunch and good, The horse of them all that haunts my dreams Is the old grey Solitude. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROGRESS OF POETRY; A VARIATION by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE TWO VOICES by ALFRED TENNYSON TO HIS HEART, BIDDING IT HAVE NO FEAR by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF SYLVIA by PHILIP AYRES |