Hopes, Painted By The Autumn Cold, Are Shining

Hopes, painted by the autumn cold, are shining; My steady horse plods on as calm as Fate; His dun Hp twitches moistly at the lining Of my blown coat; he does not change his gait. On a far road the unseen traces, leading Neither to rest nor battle, lure and fade; The golden heels of day will flash, receding, And labors in the chest of years be laid.