Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall

We stopped by a mountain pasture to say “Whose colt?”

A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall

The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head

And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.

We heard the miniature thunder where he fled

And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey

Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.

“I think the little fellow’s afraid of the snow.

He isn’t winter-broken. It isn’t play

With the little fellow at all. He’s running away.

I doubt if even his mother could tell him ’Sakes,

It’s only weather.’ He’d think she didn’t know!

Where is his mother? He can’t be out alone.”

And now he comes again with a clatter of stone

And mounts the wall again with whited eyes

And all his tail that isn’t hair up straight.

He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.

“Whoever it is that leaves him out so late

When other creatures have gone to stall and bin

Ought to be told to come and take him in.”