All

Francis Alexander Durivage (1814–1881)

THERE hangs a sabre, and there a rein,

With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;

A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,

And a mouldy saddle—well, that is all.

Come out to the stable—it is not far;

The moss grown door is hanging ajar.

Look within! There ’s an empty stall,

Where once stood a charger, and that is all.

The good black horse came riderless home,

Flecked with blood drops as well as foam;

See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall;

The good black horse pined to death—that ’s all.

All? O, God! it is all I can speak.

Question me not—I am old and weak;

His sabre and his saddle hang on the wall,

And his horse pined to death—I have told you all.