10 Best Famous Rider Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Rider poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rider poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rider poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rider poems.

• All Famous Rider Poems

 Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:
"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai -- at dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."
The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
 and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat --
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride."
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course -- in a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand -- small room was there to strive,
"'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
 their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair, -- thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, -- howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift -- by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;
 "will ye take the mate from a friend?"
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest --
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is his -- thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power --
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear --
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.
 "Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief --
 to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of the horse, the rider was lost;
For want of the rider, the battle was lost;
For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost,
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

 But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud;
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime her trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, 'Lo! thus my strength is tried;
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say?'
What cares he now for curb of pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life, 
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone

Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a race he now prepares,
And whe'r he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind;
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.

His testy master goeth about to take him;
When lo! the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

I prophesy they death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on they well-breath'd horse keep with they hounds.

"And when thou hast on food the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns with winds, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musits through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

"For there his smell with other being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled 
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never reliev'd by any.

"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe."

 So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
 The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
 The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Devi sees
 The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
 Or Duty drivese us down,
 If you love me as I love you
 What pair so happy as we two?

So long as Aces take the King,
 Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
 Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
 And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
 Or whisky at Jutogh,
 If you love me as I love you
 What knife can cut our love in two?

So long as down the rocking floor
 The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
 The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
 We hear the oft-told tale --
"Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,"
 And Whatshername for sale?
 If you love me as I love you
 We'll play the game and win it too.

So long as Lust or Lucre tempt
 Straight riders from the course,
So long as with each drink we pour
 Black brewage of Remorse,
So long as those unloaded guns
 We keep beside the bed,
Blow off, by obvious accident,
 The lucky owner's head,
 If you love me as I love you
 What can Life kill of Death undo?

So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance
 Chills best and bravest blood,
And drops the reckless rider down
 The rotten, rain-soaked khud,
So long as rumours from the North
 Make loving wives afraid,
So long as Burma takes the boy
 Or typhoid kills the maid,
 If you love me as I love you
 What knife can cut our love in two?

By all that lights our daily life
 Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
 And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
 And clamour overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard
 Our very scornful Dead,
 If you love me as I love you
 All Earth is servant to us two!

By Docket, Billetdoux, and File,
 By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,
By Fan and Sword and Office-box,
 By Corset, Plume, and Spur
By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,
 By Women, Work, and Bills,
By all the life that fizzes in
 The everlasting Hills,
 If you love me as I love you
 What pair so happy as we two?

for Christopher Okigbo 
Emrnanuel Ifeajuna & 
Chukwuma Nzeogwu

I

It was a room above the alcove
in a city renewed by junipers

And by desires... 

Stripped of words, 
the moments recalled; 
where the tower, 
lo, was in sight: 

memories undaunted by sound 
or flames of the amethyst, 

spoke to me; 
spoke to me like the preacher from…

I recall this moment staggering through the wind, 
when its breath hissed at the earth; 
as we leaned out of the window 
in that moment when the first light
streaked, joyous, out of the unalterable street... 

Then, tuned to the immanent choir of the grassland, 
untangling from the sea -

Then, stripped to the last detail, from her sinewed skin, 
disheveled in the light, one aria from the immaculate concertina -

before her rebirth
a tongue licked through the core of my soul


ii
Strange men in dark garments 
riding in slow, weary steps, 
paces of a far and distant journey -
in measured gestures

The clatter of hooves on the stone of the 
street; wakened from the depths of 
their tombs, long dead ghosts, 

memories of a carnage -

There was fear bred in that silence, 
nothing triumphant in their last march

nothing triumphant where 
once a plot is weaved, a rider rides 
into anonymity: 

what is it that they seek -

These silent riders? 

Glory? Memory? 

What is it that they want among those 
who have fallen from their swords? 

Piety? Ablution? Anonymity? 

It is not enough to bury the sword 
in the fold of the embrace; 
nor is it wise, even prudent, to 
seek meaning in past deeds 
when those deeds are immortal, 
or of an impure genealogy -

What do they seek in the bowel of the tide; 
in that place, where Onishe, 
spirit-mother, swallowed the ravishers of her children? 
Graves? Graves in the tide? 


iii
Theirs are troubled gestures full of potent wishes. 

…are those wishes -

for as they came, those riders, each
hoof in the ascent; 
each eye veiled by remorse, or anger or

a forlorn thought -

for as they came, weighed down by ancient baggage, 
a skin of water, a measure of wheat, some
penicillin, in case of epidemic
a stretcher to fetch the dead; 
an hourglass, and then the gloved idol, 

the one that ordered the massacre -
who rode ahead of the light; 
muttered a command: 'halt!'. 


From The Horsemen and Other Poems

 In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear;
Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail--
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as "fail"--
Shall follow on though heavens fall, or hell's top-turrets freeze,
Half round the world, if need there be, on bleeding hands and knees.
It's duty, duty, first and last, the Crimson Manual saith;
The Scarlet Rider makes reply: "It's duty--to the death."
And so they sweep the solitudes, free men from all the earth;
And so they sentinel the woods, the wilds that know their worth;
And so they scour the startled plains and mock at hurt and pain,
And read their Crimson Manual, and find their duty plain.
Knights of the lists of unrenown, born of the frontier's need,
Disdainful of the spoken word, exultant in the deed;
Unconscious heroes of the waste, proud players of the game,
Props of the power behind the throne, upholders of the name:
For thus the Great White Chief hath said, "In all my lands be peace",
And to maintain his word he gave his West the Scarlet Police.

Livid-lipped was the valley, still as the grave of God;
 Misty shadows of mountain thinned into mists of cloud;
Corpselike and stark was the land, with a quiet that crushed and awed,
 And the stars of the weird sub-arctic glimmered over its shroud.

Deep in the trench of the valley two men stationed the Post,
 Seymour and Clancy the reckless, fresh from the long patrol;
Seymour, the sergeant, and Clancy--Clancy who made his boast
 He could cinch like a bronco the Northland, and cling to the prongs of the Pole.

Two lone men on detachment, standing for law on the trail;
 Undismayed in the vastness, wise with the wisdom of old--
Out of the night hailed a half-breed telling a pitiful tale,
 "White man starving and crazy on the banks of the Nordenscold."

Up sprang the red-haired Clancy, lean and eager of eye;
 Loaded the long toboggan, strapped each dog at its post;
Whirled his lash at the leader; then, with a whoop and a cry,
 Into the Great White Silence faded away like a ghost.

The clouds were a misty shadow, the hills were a shadowy mist;
 Sunless, voiceless and pulseless, the day was a dream of woe;
Through the ice-rifts the river smoked and bubbled and hissed;
 Behind was a trail fresh broken, in front the untrodden snow.

Ahead of the dogs ploughed Clancy, haloed by steaming breath;
 Through peril of open water, through ache of insensate cold;
Up rivers wantonly winding in a land affianced to death,
 Till he came to a cowering cabin on the banks of the Nordenscold.

Then Clancy loosed his revolver, and he strode through the open door;
 And there was the man he sought for, crouching beside the fire;
The hair of his beard was singeing, the frost on his back was hoar,
 And ever he crooned and chanted as if he never would tire:--

"I panned and I panned in the shiny sand, and I sniped on the river bar;
But I know, I know, that it's down below that the golden treasures are;
So I'll wait and wait till the floods abate, and I'll sink a shaft once more,
And I'd like to bet that I'll go home yet with a brass band playing before."

He was nigh as thin as a sliver, and he whined like a Moose-hide cur;
 So Clancy clothed him and nursed him as a mother nurses a child;
Lifted him on the toboggan, wrapped him in robes of fur,
 Then with the dogs sore straining started to face the Wild.

Said the Wild, "I will crush this Clancy, so fearless and insolent;
 For him will I loose my fury, and blind and buffet and beat;
Pile up my snows to stay him; then when his strength is spent,
 Leap on him from my ambush and crush him under my feet.

"Him will I ring with my silence, compass him with my cold;
 Closer and closer clutch him unto mine icy breast;
Buffet him with my blizzards, deep in my snows enfold,
 Claiming his life as my tribute, giving my wolves the rest."

Clancy crawled through the vastness; o'er him the hate of the Wild;
 Full on his face fell the blizzard; cheering his huskies he ran;
Fighting, fierce-hearted and tireless, snows that drifted and piled,
 With ever and ever behind him singing the crazy man.

 "Sing hey, sing ho, for the ice and snow,
 And a heart that's ever merry;
 Let us trim and square with a lover's care
 (For why should a man be sorry?)
 A grave deep, deep, with the moon a-peep,
 A grave in the frozen mould.
 Sing hey, sing ho, for the winds that blow,
 And a grave deep down in the ice and snow,
 A grave in the land of gold."

Day after day of darkness, the whirl of the seething snows; 
 Day after day of blindness, the swoop of the stinging blast; 
On through a blur of fury the swing of staggering blows;
 On through a world of turmoil, empty, inane and vast. 
Night with its writhing storm-whirl, night despairingly black;
 Night with its hours of terror, numb and endlessly long;
Night with its weary waiting, fighting the shadows back,
 And ever the crouching madman singing his crazy song.

Cold with its creeping terror, cold with its sudden clinch;
 Cold so utter you wonder if 'twill ever again be warm;
Clancy grinned as he shuddered, "Surely it isn't a cinch
 Being wet-nurse to a looney in the teeth of an arctic storm.

"The blizzard passed and the dawn broke, knife-edged and crystal clear;
 The sky was a blue-domed iceberg, sunshine outlawed away;
Ever by snowslide and ice-rip haunted and hovered the Fear;
 Ever the Wild malignant poised and panted to slay.

The lead-dog freezes in harness--cut him out of the team!
 The lung of the wheel-dog's bleeding--shoot him and let him lie!
On and on with the others--lash them until they scream!
 "Pull for your lives, you devils! On! To halt is to die."

There in the frozen vastness Clancy fought with his foes;
 The ache of the stiffened fingers, the cut of the snowshoe thong;
Cheeks black-raw through the hood-flap, eyes that tingled and closed,
 And ever to urge and cheer him quavered the madman's song.

Colder it grew and colder, till the last heat left the earth,
 And there in the great stark stillness the bale fires glinted and gleamed,
And the Wild all around exulted and shook with a devilish mirth,
 And life was far and forgotten, the ghost of a joy once dreamed.

Death! And one who defied it, a man of the Mounted Police;
 Fought it there to a standstill long after hope was gone;
Grinned through his bitter anguish, fought without let or cease,
 Suffering, straining, striving, stumbling, struggling on.

Till the dogs lay down in their traces, and rose and staggered and fell;
 Till the eyes of him dimmed with shadows, and the trail was so hard to see;
Till the Wild howled out triumphant, and the world was a frozen hell--
 Then said Constable Clancy: "I guess that it's up to me."

Far down the trail they saw him, and his hands they were blanched like bone;
 His face was a blackened horror, from his eyelids the salt rheum ran;
His feet he was lifting strangely, as if they were made of stone,
 But safe in his arms and sleeping he carried the crazy man.

So Clancy got into Barracks, and the boys made rather a scene;
 And the O. C. called him a hero, and was nice as a man could be;
But Clancy gazed down his trousers at the place where his toes had been,
 And then he howled like a husky, and sang in a shaky key: 

"When I go back to the old love that's true to the finger-tips, 
I'll say: `Here's bushels of gold, love,' and I'll kiss my girl on the lips;
It's yours to have and to hold, love.' It's the proud, proud boy I'll be,
When I go back to the old love that's waited so long for me."

 Maud Muller on a summer's day 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast,- 

A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! 
That I the Judge's bride might be! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a pointed boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

"But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, and with a secret pain, 
"Ah, that I were free again! 

"Free as when I rode that day, 
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through a wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein; 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, "It might have been." 

Alas for the maiden, alas for the Judge, 
For rich repiner and househole drudge! 

God pity them both and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these: "It might have been!" 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away!

 A livid sky on London
And like the iron steeds that rear
A shock of engines halted
And I knew the end was near:
And something said that far away, over the hills and far away
There came a crawling thunder and the end of all things here.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down,
As digging lets the daylight on the suken streets of yore,
The lightning looked on London town, the broken bridge of London
town.
The ending of a broken road where men shall go no more.

I saw the kings of London town,
The kings that buy and sell,
That built it up with penny loaves
And penny lies as well:

And where the streets were paved with gold the shrivelled paper
shone for gold,
The scorching light of promises that pave the streets of hell.
For penny loaves will melt away, melt away, melt away,
Mock the men that haggled in the grain they did not grow;
With hungry faces in the gate, a hundred thousand in the gate,
A thunder-flash on London and the finding of the foe.

I heard the hundred pin-makers
Slow down their racking din,
Till in the stillness men could hear
The dropping of the pin:
And somewhere men without the wall, beneath the wood, without
the wall,
Had found the place where London ends and England can begin.
For pins and needles bend and break, bend and break, bend and break,
Faster than the breaking spears or the bending of the bow,
Of pagents pale in thunder-light, 'twixt thunderload and thunderlight,
The Hundreds marching on the hills in the wars of long ago.

I saw great Cobbett riding,
The horseman of the shires;
And his face was red with judgement
And a light of Luddite fires:
And south to Sussex and the sea the lights leapt up for liberty,
The trumpet of the yeomanry, the hammer of the squires;
For bars of iron rust away, rust away, rust away,
Rend before the hammer and the horseman riding in,
Crying that all men at the last, and at the worst and at the last,
Have found the place where England ends and England can begin.

His horse-hoofs go before you
Far beyond your bursting tyres;
And time is bridged behind him
And our sons are with our sires.

A trailing meteor on the Downs he rides above the rotting towns,
The Horseman of Apocalypse, the Rider of the Shires.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down;
Blow the horn of Huntington from Scotland to the sea --
...Only flash of thunder-light, a flying dream of thunder-light,
Had shown under the shattered sky a people that were free.

 That some day, emerging at last from the terrifying vision
I may burst into jubilant praise to assenting angels!
That of the clear-struck keys of the heart not one may fail
to sound because of a loose, doubtful or broken string!
That my streaming countenance may make me more resplendent
That my humble weeping change into blossoms.
Oh, how will you then, nights of suffering, be remembered
with love. Why did I not kneel more fervently, disconsolate
sisters, more bendingly kneel to receive you, more loosely
surrender myself to your loosened hair? We, squanderers of
gazing beyond them to judge the end of their duration.
They are only our winter's foliage, our sombre evergreen,
one of the seasons of our interior year, -not only season,
but place, settlement, camp, soil and dwelling.

How woeful, strange, are the alleys of the City of Pain,
where in the false silence created from too much noise,
a thing cast out from the mold of emptiness
swaggers that gilded hubbub, the bursting memorial.
Oh, how completely an angel would stamp out their market
of solace, bounded by the church, bought ready for use:
as clean, disappointing and closed as a post office on Sunday.
Farther out, though, there are always the rippling edges
of the fair. Seasaws of freedom! High-divers and jugglers of zeal!
And the shooting-gallery's targets of bedizened happiness:
targets tumbling in tinny contortions whenever some better
marksman happens to hit one. From cheers to chance he goes
staggering on, as booths that can please the most curious tastes
are drumming and bawling. For adults ony there is something
special to see: how money multiplies. Anatomy made amusing!
Money's organs on view! Nothing concealed! Instructive,
and guaranteed to increase fertility!...

 Oh, and then outside,
behind the farthest billboard, pasted with posters for 'Deathless,'
that bitter beer tasting quite sweet to drinkers,
if they chew fresh diversions with it..
Behind the billboard, just in back of it, life is real.
Children play, and lovers hold each other, -aside,
earnestly, in the trampled grass, and dogs respond to nature.
The youth continues onward; perhaps he is in love with
a young Lament....he follows her into the meadows.
She says: the way is long. We live out there....
 Where? And the youth
follows. He is touched by her gentle bearing. The shoulders,
the neck, -perhaps she is of noble ancestry? 
Yet he leaves her, turns around, looks back and waves...
What could come of it? She is a Lament.

Only those who died young, in their first state of
timeless serenity, while they are being weaned,
follow her lovingly. She waits for girls
and befriends them. Gently she shows them
what she is wearing. Pearls of grief
and the fine-spun veils of patience.-
With youths she walks in silence.

But there, where they live, in the valley,
an elderly Lament responds to the youth as he asks:-
We were once, she says, a great race, we Laments.
Our fathers worked the mines up there in the mountains;
sometimes among men you will find a piece of polished
primeval pain, or a petrified slag from an ancient volcano.
Yes, that came from there. Once we were rich.-

And she leads him gently through the vast landscape
of Lamentation, shows him the columns of temples,
the ruins of strongholds from which long ago
the princes of Lament wisely governed the country.
Shows him the tall trees of tears,
the fields of flowering sadness,
(the living know them only as softest foliage);
show him the beasts of mourning, grazing-
and sometimes a startled bird, flying straight through
their field of vision, far away traces the image of its
solitary cry.-
At evening she leads him to the graves of elders
of the race of Lamentation, the sybils and prophets.
With night approaching, they move more softly,
and soon there looms ahead, bathed in moonlight,
the sepulcher, that all-guarding ancient stone,
Twin-brother to that on the Nile, the lofty Sphinx-:
the silent chamber's countenance.
They marvel at the regal head that has, forever silent,
laid the features of manking upon the scales of the stars.
His sight, still blinded by his early death,
cannot grasp it. But the Sphinx's gaze
frightens an owl from the rim of the double-crown.
The bird, with slow down-strokes, brushes
along the cheek, that with the roundest curve, 
and faintly inscribes on the new death-born hearing,
as though on the double page of an opened book,
the indescribable outline.

And higher up, the stars. New ones. Stars
of the land of pain. Slowly she names them:
"There, look: the Rider ,the Staff,and that 
crowded constellation they call the the Garland of Fruit.
Then farther up toward the Pole:
Cradle, Way, the Burning Book, Doll, Window.
And in the Southern sky, pure as lines
on the palm of a blessed hand, the clear sparkling M,
standing for Mothers....."

Yet the dead youth must go on alone.
In silence the elder Lament brings him
as far as the gorge where it shimmers in the moonlight:
The Foutainhead of Joy. With reverance she names it,
saying: "In the world of mankind it is a life-bearing stream."

They reach the foothills of the mountain,
and there she embraces him, weeping.

Alone, he climbs the mountains of primeval pain.
Not even his footsteps ring from this soundless fate.

But were these timeless dead to awaken an image for us,
see, they might be pointing to th catkins, hanging
from the leafless hazels, or else they might mean
the rain that falls upon the dark earth in early Spring.

And we, who always think
of happiness as rising feel the emotion
that almost overwhelms us
whenever a happy thing falls.

 He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, 
And his shingle bore the legend `Peter Anderson and Co.', 
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood -- 
And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good. 
'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any `character' he had -- 
He was fond of beer and leisure -- and the Co. was just as bad. 
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. -- 
'Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe. 

'Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years: 
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers. 
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce -- 
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce. 
Some are wanderers by profession, `turning up' and gone as soon, 
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it's cheap they go saloon); 
Free from `ists' and `isms', troubled little by belief or doubt -- 
Lazy, purposeless, and useless -- knocking round and hanging out. 
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give, 
God alone knows how they manage -- God alone knows how they live! 
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while -- 
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile! 
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome `if' or `might', 
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight -- they are men who live at night! 

Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well, 
And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell; 
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue, 
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too. 
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest, 
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest. 
Seldom serious -- doing business just as 'twere a friendly game -- 
Cards or billiards -- nothing graver. And the Co. was much the same. 

They tried everything and nothing 'twixt the shovel and the press, 
And were more or less successful in their ventures -- mostly less. 
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt, 
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet. 

They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims -- 
Using Peter's own expression, they had been in `various swims'. 
Now and then they'd take an office, as they called it, -- make a dash 
Into business life as `agents' -- something not requiring cash. 
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails, 
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails -- 
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints, 
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz). 
They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance, 
But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance. 

The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up -- 
A `daily' for a table cloth -- a jam tin for a cup; 
And if the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these 
And seized the office-fittings -- well, there wasn't much to seize -- 
They would leave him in possession. But at other times they shot 
The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not. 
And when morning brought the bailiff there'd be nothing to be seen 
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been; 
There would be no sign of Peter -- there would be no sign of Joe 
Till another portal boasted `Peter Anderson and Co.' 

And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars -- 
Spicy parties at the cafe -- long cab-drives beneath the stars; 
Private picnics down the Harbour -- shady campings-out, you know -- 
No one would have dreamed 'twas Peter -- 
no one would have thought 'twas Joe! 
Free-and-easies in their `diggings', when the funds began to fail, 
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale -- 
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow -- 
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co. 
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song, 
For it can't go on for ever, and it never lasted long. 

. . . . . 

Debt-collecting ruined Peter -- people talked him round too oft, 
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.'s was just as soft); 
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he'd tell her not to fret, 
And he'd ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet; 
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her, 
After each of Peter's visits, things were brighter than they were. 
But, of course, it wasn't business -- only Peter's careless way; 
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay. 
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co. 
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go. 

`I might live,' he said to Peter, `but I haven't got the nerve -- 
I am going, Peter, going -- going, going -- no reserve. 
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die, 
Buy experience -- and we bought it -- we're experienced, you and I.' 
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow: 
`The death of such philosophy's the death I'm dying now. 
Pull yourself together, Peter; 'tis the dying wish of Joe 
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co. 

`When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course, 
And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse -- 
When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt, 
Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt. 
Shun the poison breath of cities -- billiard-rooms and private bars, 
Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars! 
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had -- 
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I'm feelin' mighty bad -- 
Hot and sweetened, nip o' butter -- squeeze o' lemon, Pete,' he sighed. 
And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep -- and died 
With a smile -- anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come, 
Or a joke to try on Peter -- or, perhaps, it was the rum. 

. . . . . 

Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves -- 
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves. 
It was awful, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think -- 
All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses -- dead man's drink. 

. . . . . 

Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft, 
Peter paid the undertaker. He got drunk on what was left; 
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co., 
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go. 
Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be, 
Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three, 
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair, 
Peter `pulled himself together' and he started business there. 

But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad, 
And no help to reformation was the company he had -- 
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim -- 
'Twas a town of wrecks and failures -- they appreciated him. 
They would ask him who the Co. was -- that ***** company he kept -- 
And he'd always answer vaguely -- he would say his partner slept; 
That he had a `sleeping partner' -- jesting while his spirit broke -- 
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke. 
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath -- 
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death; 
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more -- 
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door, 
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run 
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun; 
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest, 
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast. 
Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he 
Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free. 
Though 'twas plainly self-destruction -- `'twas his own affair,' they said; 
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found -- that he was dead.