Red Against White

I met a young child beside a dead pony;

her cheek was against his coat,

and her fingers were twined in his long mane,

which fell like silk over his neck

and her shoulders.

He looked as if he had just fallen;

he still wore bridle and saddle

and his reins were tangled

around the girl's wrists.

He was white, with a little blood

running from the corner of his mouth;

and her hair was red.

I could just see the girl's eyes

from where I stood on the path;

they were closed, and she did not cry,

although her lips were pale

and her face lined with pain.

Some sorrows are too deep for tears.

And I walked on.