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The winged horseman.
Some armoured, and some masked, but few, like him.
Winged with soft plumes. His right hand grasped a wand,
That, like a prism, showed the plain white light
A mine of jewels. Pendent from his neck,
Hung to his breast a mirror clear, wherein
All life made pictures. Else those mystical shapes
That walk as ghosts the troubled house of sleep,
Or the unhallowed breath of that dark steed,
Dimmed it awhile. His eyes were full of thought,
Deep and dream-haunted, but their upward glance
Was like the free sweep of an eagle's wing.
Winged with soft plumes. His right hand grasped a wand,
That, like a prism, showed the plain white light
A mine of jewels. Pendent from his neck,
Hung to his breast a mirror clear, wherein
All life made pictures. Else those mystical shapes
That walk as ghosts the troubled house of sleep,
Or the unhallowed breath of that dark steed,
Dimmed it awhile. His eyes were full of thought,
Deep and dream-haunted, but their upward glance
Was like the free sweep of an eagle's wing.
He rode forth on his journey, the black steed
Moving with cumbrous pace, save when, incensed
By the firm curb, he tried his master's strength,
And with wide fiery eyes and trembling nostrils
Reared and leapt forward. As the noon drew near,
The rider's arm grew weary of restraining,
And many passed by with reins flying loose,
Urging him on. Some laughed aloud for scorn,
To see him play the laggard. But ofttimes
Moving with cumbrous pace, save when, incensed
By the firm curb, he tried his master's strength,
And with wide fiery eyes and trembling nostrils
Reared and leapt forward. As the noon drew near,
The rider's arm grew weary of restraining,
And many passed by with reins flying loose,
Urging him on. Some laughed aloud for scorn,
To see him play the laggard. But ofttimes
