Young Palomino
T
HERE is no limit to his buoyant strength.
He lifts his quivering nostrils to the wind,
His arching neck—a sinewed copper
length,
His flowing mane, a bright fringe sharply thinned;
His tail a banner held aloft—he turns
And leaps to meet the sun upon the hill,
Its light within his eyes, its fire burns
Upon his flanks, his welcoming neigh is shrill.
Comrades they are: the colt, the blazing sun.
He is as golden and as swept with light
As the ball of fire that starts its morning run
To climb the sky, and reach the west at night.
His hooves strike sparks—they thunder on their
way
To meet the glorious promise of the day.
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