I came across this poem that a friend sent to me several years ago. It's called "On Winter Wind" and was written by Bertha Wilcox Smith.
A chestnut mare on a snow-filled road
Pushed on toward the rider's far abode;
Scourged by the gale, in the dark, unsure,
Stung by the ice on flailing boughs
She carried one who would not arouse.
From the somber sleep that claimed his form
As she reached a shelter from the storm;
She had borne him on, a well-loved weight,
And entered at last by a barn's wide door
To stand and grieve on a strawy floor.
Epics are sung on winter wind,
Tumultuous, undisciplined;
In silent, dusky-shadowed woods,
Where lean and ashen trees reach high
To scrawl dark runes on a parchment sky.
I don't know anything about the author, but thought that I'd share it here. I wonder if the sender, who is one of our readers, remembers sending this to me?
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