Helen C. Russmann

HIGH in the cloudy skies,

Along the barren hills,

Where short brown grass grows sparingly and spots of orange earth shine forth,

Where trees of sombre brown uprise,

Fantastic horses roam.

Cropping the scanty grass,

Their full white tails blown outward by the wind,

They move about majestically with slow and tranquil step.

Their necks are strangely thin and beautiful.

Their fiery eyes, fixed steadily on the ground,

Seem to be contemplating inward wonders.

With their unshod hoofs they leave no mark on the bare hard earth.

Slowly they move,

With their heads bent downward

Munching the short spare grass,

While the passing clouds, grey with incipient storm,

Hang low over the hills.

They know no day nor night,

Those pale fantastic horses;

For daylight on the hills is but a cloud-grey shadow,

And night is faintly luminous with livid mist.

Slowly they roam,

With their unsleeping eyes fixed inward,

Treading with easy step the inaccessible heights,

Moving in tranquil peace

Along the cloudy hills.