Standing on a wind-swept hill,
A pure white stallion granite still
Looks for his mares far and wide.
Alert and poised head flung high
No spur has blemished yet his hide
He knows no rider famed or tried.
Down amid the swamps and trees
The gentle mares with grass to knees
With velvet muzzles caress each foal,
Straining and striving t'wards Nature's goal
With slender legs and sturdy flanks
The foals prance sideways planning pranks.