Do you hear the hooves of the horses pound
On the wet spring road where youth is riding?
The petals of wild pear cling around
His feet and his stirrups, and, dimly hiding,
Dip in the locks of his flaming hair —
Wind-washed blossom of early pear.
Do you hear the hooves of the horses pound?
Straight limbs pressed to the shining flank,
And the stinging odor, sharp and rank,
Of sweat and the steaming ground ?
Swift in the wind, cold in the wind,
Firm is the flesh as the golden bud
Of a beech in spring, and wide behind,
Drenched in the copious glittering rain,
Streams his cloak of the color of blood,
And branches catch at his rein.
The wind is intimate in his ear
With terrible songs of death and laughter;
But the sound of love and the sound of fear
Are dear to him, and he rides the faster.
Riding, riding,
Oh, not yet
Has he need to remember or need to forget.