Classic Poem

Beneath the rainbow silks they sail
Like birds that wheel and cross;
Then, all their speed of no avail,
Come round to bit and martingale
With heads that reach and toss.

The ceaseless stick beside them swings,
The torn turt marks their track,
To heaving flanks the dark sweat clings
And from their fretted bridle rings
The foam comes feathering back.

But well they know there is no game
That men their masters play
Can fan like this their hearts to flame
And make them one with every aim
That fills the crowded day.

And if the sweat's on sobbing flanks,
And necks are lathered white,
Have they not won from Beauty's ranks
Caress and kiss and whispered thanks
For this their hard-fought fight?