Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/191

Rh

Upon green hills wild droves of horses blow The golden bloom off of the days that go.

From the high hillocks to the blue-ing bay Falls the sheer pitch of heavy manes that sway.

They toss their heads above the still lagoon Caught with a silver bridle by the moon.

Snorting in fear of their own shadow, they, To screen it with their manes, await the day.