March 15 to 31

The White Horse

What do I stare at – not the colt

That frisks in yon green field; so strong

That he can leap about and run,

Yet is too weak to stand up straight

When his mother licks him with her tongue.

No, no, my eyes go far beyond,

Across that field to yon far hill,

Where one white horse stands there alone;

And nothing else is white to see,

Outside a house all dark and still.

‘Death, are you in that house?’ think I-

‘Is that horse there on your account?

Can I expect a shadow soon,

Seen in that horse’s ghostly ribs-

When you come up behind, to mount!’