Comes down from the mountain the cream-colored horse, comes across dun fields and steps lightly into the house, and stands in the bright living room cloud-like and silent. And now, without warning, the gray arm of the wind takes him away. “I loved that horse,” thought the poet. “I could have loved anything, but I loved that horse. With him I could have gone to the sea, the wrinkled, sorrowing sea, and who knows what I could have done there—turned wind into marble, made stars shiver in sunlight.”



A Dream of Travel

Mark Strand


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