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Poem	The horse beneath me seemed To know what course to steer Through the horror of snow I dreamed, And so I had no fear, Nor was I chilled to death By the wind’s white shudders, thanks To the veils of his patient breath And the mist of sweat from his flanks. It seemed that all night through, Within my hand no rein And nothing in my view But the pillar of his mane, I rode with magic ease At a quick, unstumbling trot Through shattering vacancies On into what was not, Till the weave of the storm grew thin, With a threading of cedar-smoke, And the ice-blind pane of an inn Shimmered, and I awoke. How shall I now get back To the inn-yard where he stands, Burdened with every lack, And waken the stable-hands To give him, before I think That there was no horse at all, Some hay, some water to drink, A blanket and a stall?
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