Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder, why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.
Perhaps some childish hour has come again,
When I watched fearful, through the blackening rain,
Their hooves like pistons in an ancient
Move up and down, yet seem as standing still.
Their conquering hooves which trod the stubble
Were ritual that turned the field to brown,
And their great hulks were seraphims of gold,
Or mute ecstatic monsters on the mould.
And oh the rapture, when, one furrow done,
They marched broad-breasted to the sinking sun!
The light flowed off their bossy sides in flakes;
The furrows rolled behind like struggling snakes.
But when at dusk with steaming nostrils
They came, they seemed gigantic in the gloam,
And warm and glowing with mysterious
That lit their smouldering bodies in the mire.
Their eyes as brilliant and as wide as
Gleamed with a cruel apocalyptic light,
Their manes the leaping ire of the
Lifted with rage invisible and blind.
Ah, now it fades!
It fades!
And I must
Again for the dread country crystalline,
Where the blank field and the still-standing
Were bright and fearful presences to me.
