(I see it, sharp, this vision,

and each fleck on the horse's flanks

of foam, and bridle and bit,

silver, and the straps,

wrought with their perfect art,

and the sun,

striking athwart the silver-work,

and the neck, strained forward, ears alert,

and the head of a girl

flung back and her throat.)

Was she so chaste—

(Ah, burn my fire, I ask

out of the smoke-ringed darkness

enclosing the flaming disk

of my vision)

I ask for a voice to answer:

was she chaste?

Who can say—

the broken ridge of the hills

was the line of a lover's shoulder,

 Prev. P 63/71 next