Row upon row of carved stallions time

and earth-weight endow with grace

that pulls still the armies of the Emperor.

Perfect, too, padded vest, lance, brass

wheels no sun can outroll. Warriors

mounted to ride beyond anything alive.

 

But the fixed step of such battalions—

farriers have told the makers this—

can fade into shriek, a thigh’s bone-snap,

one elegant hoof, and the maker drifts

from his poem to pray—no rip

of harness tumbles his finest squadrons

 

who can go like wind up cliff’s breast

or gleam little spruce meadows gold

if fear strikes the gods to hurl them.

But if foreheads seem to tremble

as even great horses do, they dream

they are already charging. Art insists

 

none think to flee when shapes shift.

The visage of the truest blinks

only once, for these it will be never.

All hooked—fist, saddle, forelock

grip upon blade upon bone—to deliver

what matters—duty’s alignments

 

of flesh, brutes, boys in cocked-up hats.

How could they fail? sculptors boast.

In battle, spit’s drip and blood-bubble

perfectly measures a man, the best

horse for field-clamor, the struggle

of hearts buried. See, each pulls for that.