He rode along the turnpike way,
— — With yellow daffodils a-springing,
A poet on a flea-bitten gray.
— — The birds were singing.

Out from behind an oak-tree came
— — An ancient man, all bent and tangled;
Like unwound wire, he was lame,
— — And his body jangled.

" So up the mountain is your speed! "
— — He shook his stick and coughed and cackled.
" Up the great mountain, riding a steed
— — That's spavined and hackled.

Each hock is apple-puffed, his knees
— — Are broken, and he's badly winded. " —
The rusty voice stopped on a sneeze,
— — For no one minded.

The poet rode on through spotted shade,
— — His harness buckles ting-a-linging,
When down a forest-path skipped a maid,
— — With wide skirts swinging.

She stopped a moment to gape and gaze,
— — And the budding elm-trees sprigged her over
With sliding meshes of crown-green haze,
— — A butterfly cover.

" Your horse is very small, " said she.
— — " If those four feet cannot trot faster,
You might as well stay where you be.
— — Think of it, Master.

An hour hence and scarce a mile
— — Will you be from where you now are faring.
Why not dismount and stay a while,
— — For the sun is flaring. "

Pit-pat, pit-pat, the beating hoofs
— — Scatters of pebbles and dust are flinging,
Under the weaving, waving roofs,
— — Like birds a-winging.

Through the cobbled street of a little town,
— — Round a corner, and past a turning,
The poet and his flea-bitten gray are blown,
— — Like leaf-smoke burning.

A puff of gray, a darting feather;
— — Gravel pecking a window-pane;
A spark underfoot, a creak of leather;
— — They are up the lane.

Up the lane to the leaves again,
— — And trees and trees in endless stringing.
A flat, green square like a counterpane
— — And churchbells ringing.

Kettledrum strokes on an organ's drone,
— — The flea-bitten gray past the church door canters,
Thudding drum echoes out of the stone,
— — Confusing the chanters.

Round hoofs pick, and nick, and fly.
— — A shadow close to white dust clinging,
Shot at a line of purple sky,
— — And a hill wind stinging.

Waves awash and a ferry stalled.
— — Thunder-darkened, rain-ringed river.
Frantic cries of boat-men appalled.
— — A splash, a quiver.

Snorting rise on the further bank,
— — A flat-bellied gallop far on again,
Between thick bushes, steaming and dank,
— — Till sun dries rain.

He rides along the turnpike way,
— — With blue hills over green hills springing.
A poet on a flea-bitten gray,
— — And the poet is singing.