Charger

And now the little chargers split the street-

Black and dappled, iron-rusty, gray-

Rolling their velvet eyes toward spurring feet,

Beating the cobbles to a creamy spray.

All in their dazzling mail the riders sit

Secure and rowelled, exquisites on leather.

Their hands are leaning from the silver bit,

Their lips are speaking of the chiselled weather.

Who will unlock the stable in the alley

Where gaunt limbs flex, and sandy eyes are peering

Past the bright cavalcade? who loose the sally

Of whip on flank? Those nimble feet uprearing

Claw at the board; the brittle bit is banging.

By one red bolt the stable door is hanging.

BASTINADO

The bastinado is

At its cruelties.

Such feet to walk upon .

In any dawn!-

With bird-song over, and

Underfoot the sand

Glass and salt to the tread

Of feet that have bled.