Now I have tempered haste, The joyous traveller said, The steed has passed me now Whose hurrying hooves I fled. My spectre rides thereon, I learned what mount he has, Upon what summers fed; And wept to know again, Beneath the saddle swung, Treasure for whose great theft This breast was wrung. His bridle bells sang out, I could not tell their chime, So brilliantly he rings, But called his name as Time. His bin was morning light, Those straws which gild his bed Are of the fallen West. Although green lands consume Beneath their burning tread, In everlasting bright His hooves have rest.