The winged horseman

Down the green distance of cathedral woods,Methought a youth sat mounted for a journey,Reining a steed within whose cloudy eyesSlumber and flame contended. I could seeHow sullenly he hung upon the bit,And trod all greenness from the place beneathWith ponderous, restless hoofs. Light sat the rider,As one who feels his strength.As one who feels his strength. The early dawnLit the pale semblance of an angel's gloryOver his brow. Nor sword nor shield bare he.Many I saw on fretting, fiery steeds,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 lightA mine of jewels. Pendent from his neck,Hung to his breast a mirror clear, whereinAll life made pictures. Else those mystical shapesThat 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 glanceWas like the free sweep of an eagle's wing.

He rode forth on his journey, the black steedMoving with cumbrous pace, save when, incensedBy the firm curb, he tried his master's strength,And with wide fiery eyes and trembling nostrilsReared 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 ofttimesBright forms came shaping through the dim blue air,And voices spake to him they wist not of,And while he looked and listened, the black steedLay down and slumbered.Lay down and slumbered. Farther on, I sawA river with alternate light and shade,Ringed like a serpent. Some of those who passed.Waked only by the cold lap of its waves,Slept on their flying coursers.Slept on their flying coursers. Woven leavesReplaced the halo. Those afar, beheldThe air all rainbowed o'er the youth. A veilBetwixt his vision and the outer worldLay like a vapour that, dissolving, spreadsInto wild phantoms, as the mists of sleepWreathe into those strange shapes that men call dreams.

Methought they paused upon the river bank,Rider and horse. The steed, with planted hoofs,Stood resolute, and once the rider reeledAs giddy with the flowing of the waves,And once he turned, with lingering, loving looksSped to the land whose lengthened shadows fellDeep on the waters. All his laurels droppedUpon the shore he left. His bright wand lay,Adrift upon the river. The black steedSwam in its wake, and with his rein left loosePlayed the swift ripples; and they drew a veilOver his sight, and sang into his earsWhere the contending strains of heaven and earthMet and made discord. When I looked again,Lo, the pale rider, who with outstretched arms,Trod the fast-sliding currents, till ashorePlucked by extended hands! Thenceforth I sawOnly the glorified outlines of a formCast on the waters brokenly. Beyond,In my faint soul excessive light made darkness.