The mouse-brown foal that fain had fed
From off the green his mother crops
So quietly in her own place,
Craning in vain and bending, stops,
Intent upon his match with space,
And rises beaten by half a head.
And last he sets himself to slide
His spidery-slender limbs aside,
If so be now to reach the mead.—
He must stride
Ere he can feed.