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HERO
The stallion rears with lashing mane
His hooves are thunder, sheathed in rain
He paws in madness at the skies
Which boil red to mirror his eyes
What god, then, on his back must mount?
What hero might reign in the fount
That pours in torrents from his heart?
What horseman sculpt his stride to art?
One such as that must stand as tall
As Adam's own before the Fall!
In mental skill must never err
And bones of foes, with sword, cleave bare!
Oh, kneel down, you mortal men!
He rides from storming lion's den!
Plebian masses, beg his grace
Before he takes again the chase
His horse pounds drum-beats into camp
Its sweat-streaked flanks a gleaming lamp
That lights the faces scattered here
Impaling nightmares on his spear
And here he rides! And here, dismounts--
But oh, betrayed are we who count
The seconds til he touches earth
For now, in silence, falls our mirth...
Our lord is neither God nor great
And thirst for glory cannot sate
He, too, has weathered years of pain
And stands among us peasant-plain
We murmur "liege" in spirit dull
And yet it seems we face a hull;
We turn away to find our King
Whose gilded praises we may sing.
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