My Horse

I will not change my horse with any that treads.
He bounds from the earth;
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk.
He trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it.
The basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
He's of the color of the nutmeg and of the heat of the ginger.
He is pure air and fire, and the dull elements
Of earth and water never appear in him,
But only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him...
His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch,
And his countenance enforces homage.

- William Shakespeare

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