The White Horse

I saw him wound about a hill, A shadow bright against the dusk, The valleys trembled, and the chair Did shiver with that light-rose musk.

The whinnying of the cautious brutes Sirius spun with glory strange; Yet the weirdness turned the captive roots, For hungering falls, too sensitive to change.

Through deepening dark and moonlit glare, He stood, unswerving on the steep, Affirming night while soft winds rare Dare bid, in dreams, the goats to leap.

• Thomas Hardy