The gold is on the gorses,
The leaf is on the plane;
There 's rest for all good horses
Till cubbing comes again.

The beeches throw new shadow,
Wild flowers the pasture fill,
There 's clover in the meadow
And round the sheltered hill.

And shoeless feet go lightly,
As slow our favourites pass,
And forehead stars gleam whitely
Among the cool wet grass.

The bright spurs languish idle
Through many a sunlit day,
The saddle and the bridle
Are cleaned and laid away.

Yet who but will remember
The rides that went between
The red leaves of November
And April's early green?