You can reach the Chicago Railbird at rkenealyatgmail
Horses that pass through inappreciable woodland,/ Leaves in their manes tangled, mist, autumn green,/ Lord, why not give these bright brutes--your good land--/ Turf for their feet always, years for their mien./ See how each peer lifts his head, others follow,/ Mate paired with mate, flanks coming full they crowd,/ Reared in your sun, Lord, escaping each hollow/ Where life-struck we stand, utter their praise aloud.
No comments:
Post a Comment