Riders
T
HERE still are riders down the ancient
ways:
The moon astride the hill, the sun’s gold
steed
That runs unshod, unbridled through the days,
And there are riders where the tumbleweed
Straddles the fences, rocking in the wind.
There are wild horses still—their dusky manes
Tossing like spray, their quivering nostrils thinned,
As men, the conquerors, rope them on the plains.
There have been riders, there will ever be
The ones who love the sunlight in their eyes,
The whistling wind, a gallop wild and free,
The feeling of a wild bird as it flies.
Should the old earth lose its riders, plain and hill
Would stand too empty for the years to fill.
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