At evening the horse comes down unled
With pace that is but his second best,
And with harness only about his head:
He is half undrest,
And on his way to bed.
But he takes his share of the space and the light,
His brown skin glisters warm and good,
And his shadow stretches as full a height
As a horse's should;
For on the wall
As he slouches down
Stalks a phantom, tall as he is tall
And black as he is brown;
With the very gait and the very speed
Of his Highness shown,
And I fear me a greed
That matches his own;
For if his head should stoop to treat
With the wayside grasses—in a heat
There stoops his friend's,
And their muzzles meet
On the very tuft for which he contends.