Classic Poem

Gaunt, my hope, horse-wise
He goes with wide, half-glazed eyes
That neither blink, turn aside nor blaze,
Fixed as we plough the cold haze.
Round me the ruinous light
Smothers out sight,
Surges billowing up, parts—!
To come rolling in again—starts
The wheel once more, a renewed weight.
But he—high, slow, heavy of gait