The Pony

The little pony stands upon his pride

As do we all, as do we all.

With coiling mane and glittering hide

He stumbles from the earthworn stall

His pride and vehemence his all.

What if they take it from him and he fall?

Now children pout and perch upon the wall

By which he stands to rear them 'gainst the tide

Of his brown side.

But if they kick and bawl?

God save the pony, then, from all

Our deadlock heaven holds at its tall pole

Against the braked composure of the will

Which he must know to go at all.

God save the pony that he not be maimed

Beyond redemption and recall,

His low broad nostril and his waiting back

A taunt to those afflicted by their lack,

To whips the gash, to power the gall,

And despot law.

POEM

Fate, heat, the strike of the night -

It is all seen inward in time.

We love what we love for ill or good

It is the fascination of what is done -

And we are blood, blood -

Moves in our mind. Is it blind, blind?

Is as well, wine. Is it doom? As much

Song. And the night plucks open our veins,

Strong, strong!

In the garden the roses scattered

When under the wicket I came

To their blooming there on the mound.

Such early largesse of red