Song Of Seventy Horses

by Rudyard Kipling

    Once again the Steamer at Calais, the tackles
    Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her!
    Sign-refill, and let me away with my horses
    (Seventy Thundering Horses!)
    Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough, it is France

    Whether the throat-closing brick fields by Lille, or her pavées
    Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco;
    Or that wind we shave by, the brutal North-Easter,
    Rasping the newly dunged Somme.
    (Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!

    Whether the dappled Argonne, the cloud-shadows packing
    Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven
    Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them
    Feeding their never-quenched lights.
    (Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!

    Whether that gale where Biscay jammed in the corner
    Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated
    Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands
    Make themselves dance in the mist.
    (Breathe, breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough, it is France!

    Whether the broken, honey-hued, honey-combed limestone
    Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom
    Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward,
    Sleepily noisy, the Sea.
    (Tes, it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough, it is France

    Whether the Massif in Spring, the multiplied lacets
    Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under
    Turbaned snow, pushing up the heaven of Summer
    Though the stark moors lie black.
    (Neigh through the icicled tunnels;) ‘It is enough, it is France!’