Classic Poem

Thracian filly, coyly looking
At me with coquettish glances,
Young and skittish flying from me,
Thinkest thou I have no skill?
Nay, but know the truth, untamed one,
I could put the bridle on thee,
And the reins with firm hands grasping
Guide thee to the race's goal.
But the flowering meads thou hauntest,
Gambolling in frisky frolics,
Since no skilful daring rider
Yet to mount thee hast thou found.