Now I Will Saddle the Swift Brown Mare

Now I will saddle the swift brown mare, And ride, and ride, to the sunset's death; With the wind like the hands of a star in my hair, And the white frost snatching my breath!

-- Shut the door where the old books stand Row on row in their musty cowls: Monks, with a scourge and a cross in each hand: Apes, and asses, and snakes, and owls!