Hooves drummed,
     Seeming to say,
     Clip,
     Clop,
     Crop,
     Crap.

     Drink with wind,
     Shod in ice,
     the street slipped.
     The horse
     Collapsed
     On its cropper,
     Crowds of gapers
     Gathered, crowds
     Of trousers coming to a crotch
     on Kuznetsky Street.
     Gathered in a seam,
     Laughter tittered and spluttered.
     "A horse down,
     A horse has slipped,"
     Snickered the whole Kuznetsky.
     I alone
     Failed to add my voice to its howl.
     I went up
     And saw
     The horse'sgreat eyes...
     The street upturned
     And floating,
     The way he saw it...

     I went up and saw
     Tear after large tear
     Dripping down his muzzle
     And onto his coat...
     And a moaning
     And animal-like grief
     Burst out in a flood,
     And, rustling, spread.
           "Horse, don't you cry.
     Horse, listen.
     What do you think! Are you worse than them?
     My child, we are all
     To some extent horses.
            All of us have in us
     Some of the horse."
     The horse my have been old
     And needed no nursing,
            What said might have seemed trite
     But nevertheless
     It lurched
     To its feet,
     Whinned and
     Moved off again.
     It went back to its stable,
     Stood content in its stall.
     Ans it thought it was
     A young colt again,
     That it is worthwile living
     And it wasn't bad working.

     1915?