 |
|
 |
 |
| It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse Speedeth ever and ever away-- Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, Over streamlets that sing at their play; And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, While the ships they go sailing below, And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast Adjudge him some portent of woe. "What ho there!" they cry, As he flourishes by With a whisk of his beautiful tail; And the fish in the sea Are as scared as can be, From the nautilus up to the whale! |
 |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|