Song Of Seventy Horses

by Rudyard Kipling

　　

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Once again the Steamer at Calais, the tackles Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her! Sign-refill, and let me away with my horses (Seventy Thundering Horses!) Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough, it is France Whether the throat-closing brick fields by Lille, or her pavées Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco; Or that wind we shave by, the brutal North-Easter, Rasping the newly dunged Somme. (Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough, it is France! Whether the dappled Argonne, the cloud-shadows packing Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them Feeding their never-quenched lights. (Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough, it is France! Whether that gale where Biscay jammed in the corner Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands Make themselves dance in the mist. (Breathe, breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough, it is France! Whether the broken, honey-hued, honey-combed limestone Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward, Sleepily noisy, the Sea. (Tes, it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough, it is France Whether the Massif in Spring, the multiplied lacets Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under Turbaned snow, pushing up the heaven of Summer Though the stark moors lie black. (Neigh through the icicled tunnels;) ‘It is enough, it is France!’

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