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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374807" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Old Whim Horse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, <br> And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, <br>With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, <br> And he bears all over the brands of graft; <br>And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder <br> Why by night and day the whim is still, <br>Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder <br> Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In that whim he worked when the night winds bellowed <br> On the riven summit of Giant's Hand, <br>And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed <br> All the wide, long sweep of enchanted land; <br>And he knew his shift, and the whistle's warning, <br> And he knew the calls of the boys below; <br>Through the years, unbidden, at night or morning, <br> He had taken his stand by the old whim bow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the whim stands still, and the wheeling swallow <br> In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay, <br>And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow <br> O'er the grass-grown brace in the summer day; <br>And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners <br> Of the forge, and down where the timber lies; <br>And the crows are perched like a band of mourners <br> On the broken hut on the Hermit's Rise. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the hands have gone, for the rich reef paid out, <br> And the company waits till the calls come in; <br>But the old grey horse, like the claim, is played out, <br> And no market's near for his bones and skin. <br>So they let him live, and they left him grazing <br> By the creek, and oft in the evening dim <br>I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing <br> At the ruined brace and the rotting whim. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The floods rush high in the gully under, <br> And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees, <br>Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder <br> As the fires drive by on the summer breeze. <br>Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders <br> To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, <br>And with hanging head by the bow he ponders <br> Where the whim boy's gone -- why the shifts don't come. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there comes a night when he sees lights glowing <br> In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill, <br>When he hears again all the stampers going -- <br> Though the huts are dark and the stampers still: <br>When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging <br> As its shadows roll on the silver sands, <br>And he knows the voice of his driver singing, <br> And the knocker's clang where the braceman stands. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming, <br> On the ring once more his accustomed place; <br>But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming <br> Show the scattered timbers and grass-grown brace. <br>Yet HE hears the sled in the smithy falling, <br> And the empty truck as it rattles back, <br>And the boy who stands by the anvil, calling; <br> And he turns and backs, and he "takes up slack". </div><div style="margin:10px 0">While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver <br> As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, <br>And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver <br> In the ghostly light, round the grey horse goes; <br>And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, <br> Hears again the voice that was dear to him, <br>Sees the form he knew -- and his heart grows bolder <br> As he works his shift by the broken whim. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He hears in the sluices the water rushing <br> As the buckets drain and the doors fall back; <br>When the early dawn in the east is blushing, <br> He is limping still round the old, old track. <br>Now he pricks his ears, with a neigh replying <br> To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow, <br>And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying; <br> From the ring no more will the grey horse go. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In a gully green, where a dam lies gleaming, <br> And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, <br>And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming <br> On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, <br>Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting <br> In the high rank grass by the dried-up course, <br>Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting <br> Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+George+Dyson">Edward George Dyson</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374807" data-title="The Old Whim Horse de Edward George Dyson" data-description="He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands of graft; And he lifts his..."></div> </div> </div>
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