Grey Garry stood in the dusky stall —
Grey Garry, dapple-grey Garry.
He heard the birds, and the wind's footfall;
He heard the sparrows flutter and call,
Where the soft lights flush and tarry.
He raised his head from the scented hay —
He drew his lips from the yellow grain,
For down the cool of the ending day
He heard his laughter again.

Nay, Grey Garry, 't was but a dream —
The wind gone daft or the trees unstrung.
Nay, dear horse, it was but a trick
Of the Summer-wind, who is ever young.
The writer sat in his lamp-lit room —
Weary and sad the writer.
He heard the wind in the outer gloom —
It held a tang of the woodland bloom,
As it did when the world was brighter.
He lifted his eyes from the scribbled proofs;
He dropped the pen from his weary hand,
For somewhere he heard the clatter of hoofs —
Galloping hoofs through a Summer land.

Nay, good writer, 't was but a dream —
The wind gone daft or thy nerves unstrung.
Nay, dear boy, it was but a trick
Of the Summer-wind, who is ever young.