The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,Īnd sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,Īs down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. We'll remember at Aix " - for one heard the quick wheeze Your Roos galloped bravely, the faults not in her, His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.īy Hasselt, Dirck groaned and cried Joris, "Stay spur! O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!Īnd the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:Īnd his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backįor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track Īnd one eye's black intelligence, - ever that glance With resolute shoulders, each butting away To stare through the mist at us galloping past,Īnd I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
So Joris broke the silence with "Yet there is time!"Īt Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,Īnd against him the cattle stood black every one, Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear Īt Boom, a great yellow star came out to see Īt Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be Īnd from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 'Twas moonset at starting but while we drew near Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place Not a word to each other we kept the great pace "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through īehind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,Īnd into the midnight we galloped abreast. "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix As Patrick Merrick tells Nicola Marlow in End of Term, "It's a wonderful poem to gallop to." It's a lovely poem, with a breathlessly bouncy rhythm. I finally did last week and so here it is, not The Winged Horse but How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, by Robert Browning. I don't know why it's taken me so long to ask Girlsown, a book discussion list I belong to, about it. Of course, I could never find it because I was looking for the wrong poet and title! Anyway, I first came across a snippet of it in End of Term by Antonia Forest and always longed to read the full-length version. I suspect it's because it's quoted in a Pamela Frankau book of that name and my fuzz-filled brain just presumed. | TrackBack Sunday, DecemThe Winged Horseįor years I thought that this poem was by Hilaire Belloc and called The Winged Horse. Sunday, Decemin Poem of the Week, Poems & Poets | I thought I'd risk hate mail from radical Christians and post this jaunty verse by my favourite poet. Saturday, Decemin Daphne Speaks!, Poem of the Week, Poems & Poets | I didn't like the ones in which he looked solemn and adult. My favourites were the ones in which Jesus was a jolly-looking baby. When I was little and a good, practising Catholic, I had a huge collection of pictures, cards and bookmarks depicting the Holy family. I like it better than those in which Mary and Jesus are blonde and blue-eyed.
It doesn't reflect the way I feel about the holiday, but I think it's meaningful if you see Christmas as a religious celebration. I'm posting this week's poem a day early for obvious reasons.
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