| |
|
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.
|
|
|
