Classic Poem

These spartan steers I much admire
Who never knew a stall or byre,
But, cast beneath a mesa's brow,
Sucked the milk of a fighting cow.
Although they bear an owner's brand
Wild, they range a wilder land.
With buzzards for only umpire
They have fought battles, horned with fire.
Their scattered foraging they know
Deep-buried in the blinding snow,
And water-holes are ringed around
By their trails in the scarlet ground.
Even their skulls horned and white
Are like a new moon shining bright
Delicate and thin with age
Beneath the filigree of the sage.