Wild horses we <br />Pricked at the wind, <br />Never to know, alas; <br />That all the lord of our fortunes bought <br />For us <br />Was poverty grass. <br /> <br />Poverty grass <br />The paupered seed <br />So sickly poor, alas; <br />The souls of the great untamed grow weak <br />Despair <br />On poverty grass. <br /> <br />And you, my friend, <br />Grew sick awhile, <br />And cried and cried, alas; <br />While I grew fat on a flowering weed <br />Called pride <br />And poverty grass. <br /> <br />And when you left <br />The field to me <br />I almost died, alas; <br />For I was left in a fallow field <br />Piled high <br />In poverty grass. <br /> <br />Wild horses we <br />Pricked at the wind, <br />Never to know, alas; <br />That all the lord of our fortunes bought <br />For us <br />Was poverty grass. <br /> <br />24 January 1980<br /><br />David Lewis Paget<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poverty-grass/
