 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
57
The Home of Rest for Horses
Would God! some gift of Pentecostal powers
Could bid them speak our tongue and say their say,
Then from each rolling cab and thundering dray
A wail would rise and shake your London towers,
Crying, “We once ran fetlock-deep in flowers
Now, doomed in maze of barren bricks to stay;
Night brings no rest to help the weary day,
Life has no joy, Death's ease alone is ours.”
Could bid them speak our tongue and say their say,
Then from each rolling cab and thundering dray
A wail would rise and shake your London towers,
Crying, “We once ran fetlock-deep in flowers
Now, doomed in maze of barren bricks to stay;
Night brings no rest to help the weary day,
Life has no joy, Death's ease alone is ours.”
Spavined, with curb and splint, and sore of heel—
Tongues hanging pained o'er bits of froth and blood—
With dim dull eyes, heads drooping down, they come
The troop of silent sufferers; Like a flood
Man's pity pours to meet them,—hearts that feel
Have bid them welcome to the Horses' Home.
Tongues hanging pained o'er bits of froth and blood—
With dim dull eyes, heads drooping down, they come
The troop of silent sufferers; Like a flood
Man's pity pours to meet them,—hearts that feel
Have bid them welcome to the Horses' Home.
| A Sonnet Chronicle | |