On Earth Ponies

The works and the days they are

Done with, the long stretch of

Agrarian years they are

Done with all, the call of the trees is

Done with, and accomplished the

Apple demands—family and the

Weight of duty.

Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—

Ever faithful ever true.

Ponies of the earth, we the movers

Of the grain, who tend the vineyards

Of the Grapes, who are the growers

Of Apples—

Who love the Good Earth.

Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—

Ever faithful ever true.

No flyer of clouds am I, nor my

Ponies those who build pillars

Of cloud—These hooves built for

Hard things are, built for the

Slow things are to guard and for

Living things are the hooves of

The Ponies I come from meant.

Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—

Ever faithful ever true.

And I have no magic because I need

None, need no wings, need no

Wine of heady sort to grace tongue

And no mysteries in runes. I have

World enough, and time,

And commands to ask not of

Tomorrow

But only to enjoy the lilies of the

Field

Which is to say

That the love of Earth is mine and

The World is enough.

Author's Notes:

Poem by Cynewulf