Classic Poem

The Halter at the Gate

The sheen is off the summer grass,
The clover's bruised and brown,
The autumn winds that stoop and pass
Have bent the hemlock down.
Long, long the weeks of ease you've had,
But now the year grows late,
The idle days must end, my lad —
The halter's at the gate!

So, once more round your kingdom swing
Full speed with reaching stride,
Till cream upon your shoulder cling
And sweat-marks dull your side;
Then, scoring hoof-slides on the turn,
Wheel up and face your fate;
The cubs are waiting in the fern —
The halter 's at the gate!English