Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/224

⁠By the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of years,
Our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and peril,
⁠Labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears;
And the sound of them trampling the way cleaves night as an arrow asunder,
⁠And slow by the sand-hill and swift by the down with its glimpses of grass,
Sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs trample and thunder,
⁠Rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the night as we pass;
Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute as a maiden,
⁠Stung into storm by the speed of our passage, and deaf where we past;
And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine only but mine heavy-laden,
⁠As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah, love, shall we win at the last?