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to James Schuyler

There I could never be a boy,

though I rode like a god when the horse reared.

At a cry from mother I fell to my knees!

there I fell, clumsy and sick and good,

though I bloomed on the back of a frightened black mare

who had leaped windily at the start of a leaf

and she never threw me.

I had a quick heart

and my thighs clutched her back

I loved her fright, which was against me

into the air! and diamond white of her forelock

which seemed to smart with thoughts as my heart smarted

with life

and she'd toss her head with the pain

and paw the air and champ the bit, as if I were Endymion

and she, moon-like, hated to love me

All thing are tragic

when a mother watches!

and she wishes upon herself

the random fears of a scarlet soul, as it breathes in and out

and nothing chokes, or breaks from triumph to triumph!

I knew her but I could not be a boy,

for in the billowing air I was fleet and green

riding blackly through the ethereal night

towards men's words which I gracefully understood,

and it was given to me

as the soul is given the hands

to hold the ribbons of life1

as miles streak by beneath the moon's sharp hooves

and I have mastered the speed and strenght which is the

armor of the world