The stampede on the plain is the thunder of his feet,
Exhilarating power with a palpitating beat;
The hooves four tireless hammers of this wild unchannelled colt,
Poured like molten larva in a scorching blind assault.
And what could tame his fury, and steer him left or right?
The cold blue taste of metal, stark and sliced and bright.
Indifferent to tempest and implacable through tides,
A brooding mountain in the waves, her merciless steel sides
And bulging, looming tonnage toiling dogged on her course,
She drives a ruthless channel through the swell with haughty force.
But a thimbleful of weight upon the flimsy tiller pressed
Will swing this bold Colossus to the East or to the West.
The purple gloss of Boasting is a self-inflating cheer;
The soft insinuation into Gossipís itching ear;
Corroded architecture blighting Truthís neglected tower;
The lidless pot of Anger seethes with spitting, toxic power.
A horse may bear a rider or a stubborn ship be swung,
A thousand creatures have been quelled, but who can tame the tongue?
Inspired by James 3
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