Classic Poem

And oft in the early morn, when birds in their nest are still,
I ride whither he that comes to forage must fare alone—
A spring-pasture, one kept safe by spear-heads in watch and ward,
And rich with the floods poured forth from many a black storm-cloud—
On stout mare, a bay whose flesh her running made dry and tough,
As though 'twere, so hard it is, the staff of a weaver's beam.

I scared once with her a herd of wild kine: their skins pure white,
Unblemished; their legs bestriped like needle-wrought Yemen robes.
Meseemed, as they sped their pace and trotted, I saw a troop
Of horses that wheel about, with glistening saddle-cloths.
So wheeled they and set on guard behind them a lusty bull
Of long back and horns: his nose turns upward, his tail sweeps low;
Whilst I in pursuit bore on against bull and cow alike,
And bent to the chase, what time I followed it, all my mind.

As swift as an eagle swoops and softly her wings draws in
To snatch in the morning-shine a hare on Sherabba's height—
Her eyrie around lie fresh and shrivelled the hearts of birds,
As though the jujube's red fruit were mingled with crumbling dates—
The foxes that haunt Arwal have slunk to their holes in fear:
So under me flew the steed I hastened with hand and thighs.

Were that after which I strive my bare need, to live withal,
For me were a little wealth enough: I would seek no more;
But after renown I strive, a firm glory rooted deep,
And men such as I may win the glory most deep and firm.
How long in a man soe'er the breath of his spirit lasts,
He never will reach the end of craving or cease from toil.