Classic Poem

Deep silence at “The Tower,” and, swaying slow,
the Rio Salto's poplars whispered low.

The Norman horses, each inside his stall,
were breaking grain, with crusty crunching, all.

At the end was the untamed mare from northern land,
born mid the pines upon the salt sea strand.

To her thin nostrils still the sea spray clung,
and in her ears intent the sea cries rung.

My mother was beside her, arm on rail,
and said to her, with voice subdued and frail:

“Oh, little mare, little mare dapple-grey,
that him who comes no more didst bear away,

thou didst obey his word, his gesture blind!
a son in early youth he left behind,

the first among my sons and daughters eight;
and ever at his calling thou dost wait.

Feeling within thy flanks the whirlwind's speed,
unto his little hand thou givest heed.

Holding within thy heart the ocean shore,
thou givest heed to his young voice, the more.”

The mare now turned about her tense-veined head
unto my mother, who more sadly said:

“Oh, little mare, little mare dapple-grey,
that him who comes no more didst bear away,

thou hast him truly loved, that I have known;
with him, and with his death wert thou alone.

O forest-born, among the waves and wind,
within thy heart thy terror thou didst bind;

as in thy mouth the bit's strong pull grew less,
thou didst in thy swift heart still onward press:

slowly thou didst proceed with measured breath,
that he might meet in peace the pains of death. . . .”

The long head tensely veined more closely nears
my mother's face, now bathed in streaming tears.

“Oh, little mare, little mare dapple-grey,
that him who comes no more didst bear away,

surely he left behind some message sweet,
and thou canst comprehend, but not repeat.

When thou didst feel between thy hoofs the reins,
while gun-shot flashes surged within thy veins,

and still the shooting to thine ears was nigh,
thou trodst the road amid the poplars high,

to bring him back to us, at waning day,
that we might hear the last he had to say.”

The long, proud head was quietly intent.
My mother's arms about the curved mane bent.

“Oh, little mare, little mare dapple-grey,
thou borest to his home, but not to stay,

one, who to me will never be returned!
Oh, thou wert good! … To speak thou hast not learned,

poor little one; but thou art unafraid,
and this request of mine must be obeyed!

Thou hast seen the man through whom in death he lies,
thou hast him here, held fast within thine eyes.

Who was, who is he? Now, a name I'll say.
Make thou a sign. May God teach thee the way.”

The horses now no longer crunch the hay:
they sleep, and dream the whiteness of the way.

No more the straw their hollow hoof-fall feels:
they sleep, and dream the rolling of the wheels. . . .

My mother raised her hand. Silence profound.
She spoke a name … Behold! a neighing sound.