Hopes, painted by the autumn cold, are shining;
My steady horse plods on as calm as Fate;
His dun Hp twitches moistly at the lining
Of my blown coat; he does not change his gait.
On a far road the unseen traces, leading
Neither to rest nor battle, lure and fade;
The golden heels of day will flash, receding,
And labors in the chest of years be laid.