A quarter horse, no rider canters through the pasture thistles raise soft purple burrs her flanks are shiny in the sun I whistle and she runs almost sideways toward me the oats in my hand are sweets to her: dun mane furling in its breeze, her neck corseted with muscle, wet teeth friendly against my hand - how can I believe you ran under a low maple limb to knock me off? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLOWER BOAT by ROBERT FROST TOM O'ROUGHLEY by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS NAPOLEON by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H (1) by CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE THE DEATH OF THE HIRED MAN by ROBERT FROST AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD STANZAS OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF H-- A-- by BERNARD BARTON |