Seeking high shrines of quietude, I found; Warm with the south and like first chaos, still; The cloister of a gaunt old hermit hill Nearer to God than any brother mound. Stark, for the lash of wind, and autumn browned It suffered red assaults of beauty till Submerged in blood that crimson sunsets spill. My heart knelt. . . then -- wild hoofs crashed into sound. Up, up, they galloped in a frenzied surge Of liberty. I felt its ardent breath, Laughed and ran forward (O the glad mad urge!) To their encounter. By a twentieth Of my brief length I missed them; on the verge Brushing the mane of swift exultant death. |