Winter Horse
Again the dreams, each dark cold night,
of a white horse, oh sweet delight;
he turns to me, waiting it seems,
each dark cold night, again the dreams.
The snow falls, each flake filigree,
waiting it seems, he turns to me;
a small bird sings, with sad birdcalls,
each flake filigree, the snow falls.
Oh ... be still, I ask my heartstrings,
with sad birdcalls, a small bird sings;
the night quiet, I hear his trill,
I ask my heartstrings, oh ... be still.
And we ride, his hooves a riot,
I hear his trill, the night quiet;
across a meadow, swift we glide,
his hooves a riot, and we ride.
Copyright ©
Constance La France
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