Along the road the ceaseless motors thrust,
Shrieking discordant warning and harsh blame.
Then, suddenly, proud stepping through the dust,
Comes what I '11 call for want of better name
One of the Old Contemptibles.
One of the good old sort; three-quarter bred;
Deep shouldered, long of rein, with ribs well-sprung ;
With honest eye and lean well-carried head;
With ears alert, now twitched, now forward flung.
Behind him rolls the high unhurried wheel ;
His harness tinkles with a pleasing sound ;
With measured step his legs of hammered steel
Lift merrily in music from the ground.
A fleck of foam upon his shoulder gleams,
His nostrils quiver with the breath they drew;
Over his forehead band his forelock streams,
A dark cascade with dark eyes looking through.
What vision greets those patient blue-brown orbs?
What dim procession do the roads reveal?
What fierce unfettered empery absorbs
His once-sufficient realm of shaft and wheel?
His not to question what the hours may bring;
His but to plod behind Time's swifter feet
Through that old world already on the wing
The silence of the centuries to meet.
I find a sorrow in his stubborn stride ;
With grief unguessed I stand and watch him go.
He carries with him much that nursed our pride :
Remembered things; things steadfast, staunch,
and slow.
