Jockeys

Still there are Centaurs. When the year rolls round to Spring, they return From far away, different days. Now they only ride upon a track; A measured beaten track, bent to a circle. They are no longer shy and furtive things Fleeing across the plains from curious eyes; Fear left them long ago.— They have been melted in the crucible of time And made over. We call them "Jockeys." But when they ride They are more. They are Reincarnations! Watch their young faces as they flash past, And you will understand, Perhaps. All eyes not blinded by the greed of gold Can see they ride for joy! For joy! An old-primeval joy! In those fine breathless moments They know a vast return to gay adventurings. So they rode—somewhere—sometime— In the abyss of vanished days. O once again for them the world is new And every tree has its own lovely dryad! The little fauns still dance—and dance— While from the hills the goat-foot pipes them on With a strange tune. So! To the post! To the post! On to the winning post, swift little feet! You beat an ancient music on the ground, A light and thudding music as of drums! A hundred thousand years has changed it Not at all. It dims the eyes with tears For old departed gladness. Who would not give a round of tedious hours To know this short, bright glory of a race! In truth they garner something priceless— Something more than gold—The Jockeys— The young and dauntless riders Of the track!