So away, down the moonlit road, goes
Paul Revere and the Larkin horse, galloping
into history, art, editorials, folklore, poetry;
the beat of those hooves never to be forgotten.
The man, his bold dark face bent, his hands
light on the reins, his body giving to the
flowing rhythm beneath him, becoming, as it
were, something greater than himself
-- not merely one man riding one horse
on a certain lonely night of long ago,
but a symbol to which his countrymen can yet turn.
Paul Revere had started on a ride which,
in a way, has never ended. |
