The Mount

Now I have tempered haste,

The joyous traveller said,

The steed has passed me now

Whose hurrying hooves I fled.

My spectre rides thereon,

I learned what mount he has,

Upon what summers fed;

And wept to know again,

Beneath the saddle swung,

Treasure for whose great theft

This breast was wrung.

His bridle bells sang out,

I could not tell their chime,

So brilliantly he rings,

But called his name as Time.

His bin was morning light,

Those straws which gild his bed

Are of the fallen West.

Although green lands consume

Beneath their burning tread,

In everlasting bright

His hooves have rest.

Copyright Credit: Léonie Adams, “The Mount” from Poems: A Selection (New York: The Noonday Press, 1959). Used by permission of Judith Farr, Literary Executrix of the Estate of Léonie Adams.

Source: Poems: A Selection (The Noonday Press, 1959)