“Where is my horse?” thought the Rider. “Does he not hear the battle horns blowing?
Where is his saddle and bridle, and his flaxon mane flowing?
Where is his hoof falling lightly, and his brown eye glowing?
Will there be a spring, or a harvest, where we are going?”
“Where,” thought the Horse, “is my rider? Does he not smell the wind that is blowing?
Where is his helm and his hauberk, and his bright shield glowing?
Where is his hand on the reins, and his house pennant flowing?
Will there be a battle, and bloodshed, where we are going?”
Amidst all the cries and the chaos, the melee of the muster for battle,
Horse and rider somehow found each other, and the rider leapt into the saddle
And they passed like a storm in the mountains, like a wind through the meadow,
Sweeping out of the West, beyond the hills, toward the Shadow.