Their hoofbeats strike against the air
Imprinting wracks with mystic signs:
No earthly stallions half so rare,
No eagles pinioned half so fine.

When through the meadows of the night
Their tails have swept the moon awry,
The world's dreams beseat their might,
To rise, or fall, as they do fly.

For when they have good pasture found,
That dreamers celebrate with sighs,
Their poet riders are renowned
Who know that graze, and where it lies.

But when the night mare's proud neck arcs,
Terror shares poor Fantasy's ride;
When hooves from hapless stars strike sparks,
Then Fear sits grinning at her side.

Diana's herd, too fierce to rein,
Heed no commands of mortal men.
No hobble will stay, no bit remain:
No dream, once lost, will come again.

—San Jose, California
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