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by Alfred Kreymborg, 1916

Our door was shut to the noon-day heat.
We could not see him.
We might not have heard him either—
Resting, dozing, dreaming pleasantly.
But his step was tremendous—
Are mountains on the march?

He was no man who passed;
But a great faithful horse
Dragging a load
Up the hill.

Published in Mushrooms: A Book of Free Forms
Tags: visual art

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.