by James Sheridan Knowles
What delight To back the flying steed,
that challenges The wind for speed!
seems native more of air Than earth!
whose burden only lends him fire!
Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport;
Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now!
He takes away my breath! He makes me reel!
I touch not earth - I see not - hear not.
All Is ecstasy of motion!