Too soon, too soon, a man will come To lock the gate, and drive them home. Then, neighing softly through the night, The mare will nurse her shoulder bite. Now, lightly fair, through lock and mane She gazes over the dusk again,
And sees her darkening stallion leap
In grass for apples, half asleep.
Lightly, lightly, on slender knees
He turns, lost in a dream of trees.
Apples are slow to find this day, Someone has stolen the best away.
Still, some remain before the snow,
A few, trembling on boughs so low
A horse can reach them, small and sweet: And some are tumbling to her feet.
Too soon, a man will scatter them, Although I do not know his name, His age, or how he came to own A horse, an apple tree, a stone.
I let those horses in to steal
On principle, because I feel
Like half a horse myself, although Too soon, too soon, already. Now.