Set by John Mitchell (1941-) op. 48, no. 5 (1982, arr. 1993)
Text by 弗罗斯特(Robert Frost) (1874-1963), from West-Running Brook, 1928.
The surest thing there is is we are riders,
And though none too successful at it, guiders,
Through everything presented, land and tide
And now the very air, of what we ride.
What is this talked-of mystery of birth
But being mounted bareback on the earth?
We can just see the infant up astride,
His small fist buried in the bushy hide.
There is our wildest mount--a headless horse.
But though it runs unbridled off its course,
And all our blandishments would seem defied,
We have ideas yet that we haven't tried.
The Beauty of Touch
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