With flying rein, a frothing steed,
Bearing an empty saddle ;
Dashed to and fro along the line,
Amid the din of battle.
The hand that guided him for years,
That stroked his flowing mane ;
Still clutching to a saber hilt,
Lies cold out on the plain.
A roaring hell on every side.
Like hail, the shot fell round ;
A blinding flash, a piercing neigh ;
Ned trembled ; then went down.
The bugle sounded loud, "The Charge!"
He raised his gallant head,
Then laid it on the sod again,
Another soldier — dead.
Published in Penciled Poems, 1917