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See him beyond the hedgerow,
     that lone, loquacious stallion,
     what's whickers abound
     and abide in their binds.
          He stands still,
eclipsed by the glimmer
     that peaks through
     the leaves of the stark
     oaken shade amidst
          the misty copse of
someplace.

O! How fair,
     the wandering mare
     that so happens whereupon
     his supping in thought.
          The stallion speaks
with a mouthful of bromus,
     which he wrought from the soil
     that filled the hole
     of a deadwood bole,
          supine upon the moss,
uprooted.

His heart had begun to wrench,
     as his tail went carried away
     and his mounting hoof—
     a furious commotion
          along the graze—
was so the glory of his day.
     This whisper then ran down
     the lady's sensual mane,
     and ev'ry sinew tightened
          to enlighten his
stare.

     t'was there
among the light that
          there'd ne'er be a doubt
               in that fertile thicket,
               now seemingly bare . . .

               and that
          alabaster stallion then
                    went wandering about,
                         his canter apace with
                         his ebony mare . . .