The Horseman

Dust on the trail-then a blot-

Somebody coming! It's not

Usual here in this spot

Off the main highway, forgot

By the world. But he's nearer. He rides

At a trot on the level. He hides

Where the shoulder of sandstone obscures

The white cloud of his passing. He lures

Our eyes from the harrow and churn.

We taste of his coming. We yearn

For his voice, for the word of the trail,

For the pipefuls, the leisurely hail

And farewell of the dwellers alone

On the skirts of the high peaks of stone.

One more turn and he'll be at the door.

Quick, catch up the pail from the floor-

His horse will be thirsty, and set

The bench in the shadow, and get

Some food on the stove. "Step right down-

Take a seat. What's the good news from town?"

But he answers us shortly-a drink

For his horse from the spring-do we think

He can make Canyon City by dark?

We point out a blue ridge to mark.

He is cold and apart from our words.

He looks over the mountains-the birds

Are not more incurious. He shakes

The reins; the horse moves; silence breaks

On the hills, the thin trail, the tilled field.

He is gone. He will nevermore yield

Cheerful secrets of where he has been,

What has done, what has said, what has seen,

His name and his station-his flight

Has gathered them all. In the light

We watch him ascending the height,

More strange than the mountains and night.