Old Stalwart Poem by Ruth Manning-Sanders

(After an Accident)

Now we in the small stable watched with Death,
Death that stood hesitant, where rusty gold
Old Stalwart's flanks gleamed dimly mid a throng
Of crowding shadows; for the storm-lamp burned
Close to the harness door, and patched and barred
And blotched, the shapes of things spread on the wall
And fell across the floor—and not a sound
Save our low voices in the sleeping world.

Awhile ago was clamour when they found
Him lying in the snow and brought him in.
Propping him with their shoulders lest he fall.
Shouting rough kindliness to dizzy ears,
Rall3dng him onward when his slipping hoofs
Made tremulous clatter on the cobble stones,
And his poor legs shook under him and swayed.
At last, with roar of loud encouragement
Crowding the stable door, pushing him in
To the warm shelter of his little stall;
Running for buckets, tossing down more straw,
Telling their tale again and yet again
To us whose hearts ached, and then, one by one.
Shaking wise heads and shuffling off to bed.
Hour after hour beneath the lantern light.
Crouched on our fragrant bed of hay we watched,
And the old horse stood waiting, and Death paused,
Half shamed it seemed to drive into the dark
And bitter cold one who so courteously
Waited his bidding, still, with head just bowed.
Proudly submissive, ready. Oh, pale Death !
Go from him, for the path thou drivest on
Leads through the dark forever, and no sun
Makes sweat, no rain makes cool, and eventide
Brings not sweet rest and food, and friendly hands
Unyoking, and the friendly tongues that praise
This steed above all steeds, and the warm bed
That rustles and smells good. Where thou dost drive
The way runs on and on through vaporous fears
And icy mists ; thy going has no sound.
And never voice is heard along the track:
Oh turn away and find some other steed.
And leave to us and him the climbing sun.
The white unfolding road, the merry bell
That rings us to adventures new and strange.
The grass by the roadside, the happy birds
Rising and singing, whilst the wind blows free,
And growing light makes silver suns to dance
Among the trappings, and falls redly gold
On proud curved neck, on small and shapely ears.
On shining fetlock and loose flowing mane.
And glads a heart too tireless and too brave
For thy mute shapeless world, oh, barren Death!
So pleaded we, crouched on the fragrant hay
At Death's cold feet, and the old patient horse
Waited his word nor moved, till bustling cocks
Crew in the yard, and dawn peered greyly in
Through the small crooked window, and Death
turned
And hid him in the corner, penitent.
And the old horse shifted his weight and sighed,
Then stooped his head and drank ; and we rose up
And shook the hay out of our clothes and stood
Gazing each on the other, chilled and white
And weary-eyed with watching, yet in hope.