⁠Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
⁠And calls us to the drift.
Then down the cloven ridges—
⁠A million hooves unshod—
Break forth the mad White Horses
⁠To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water
⁠Our furious vanguard strains—
Through mist of mighty tramplings
⁠Roll up the fore-blown manes—
A hundred leagues to leeward,
⁠Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
⁠The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils—
⁠Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us