他是一匹灰色的老马，忧郁地低着头，昏黄的老眼睛，船尾歪歪扭扭地打转，前舵跳得很厉害，后舵扭得很厉害，身上带满了腐败的烙印;他从草丛中抬起头来，想知道为什么白天黑夜都没有奇思怪想，为什么寂静无声，粉碎的磨坊里再也没有打雷的声音。在他的心血来潮中，当夜风呼啸在巨人之手破碎的山顶上，当白天，当浪涛的春色染黄了那片广袤而绵长的魔地;他知道自己的班次，知道哨声的警告，也知道下面孩子们的呼唤;这么多年来，无论在晚上还是早晨，他都不请自来，一直站在那个老念头的旁边。但奇想却静止不动，盘旋的燕子在寂静的深井里悬挂着她的泥土之家，在夏日里，蜥蜴在草地上调情，迅捷的蛇在草地上追逐;玉米从铁匠铺的裂缝和角落里高高地长出来，从堆放木材的地方长出来;乌鸦像一群哀悼者栖息在隐士高地的破茅屋上。所有的手都走了，因为那丰厚的暗礁已付了钱;但那匹老灰马，就像索赔一样，已经玩完了，附近没有市场卖他的骨头和皮肤。 So they let him live, and they left him grazing By the creek, and oft in the evening dim I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing At the ruined brace and the rotting whim. The floods rush high in the gully under, And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees, Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder As the fires drive by on the summer breeze. Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, And with hanging head by the bow he ponders Where the whim boy's gone -- why the shifts don't come. But there comes a night when he sees lights glowing In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill, When he hears again all the stampers going -- Though the huts are dark and the stampers still: When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging As its shadows roll on the silver sands, And he knows the voice of his driver singing, And the knocker's clang where the braceman stands. See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming, On the ring once more his accustomed place; But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming Show the scattered timbers and grass-grown brace. Yet HE hears the sled in the smithy falling, And the empty truck as it rattles back, And the boy who stands by the anvil, calling; And he turns and backs, and he "takes up slack". While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver In the ghostly light, round the grey horse goes; And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, Hears again the voice that was dear to him, Sees the form he knew -- and his heart grows bolder As he works his shift by the broken whim. He hears in the sluices the water rushing As the buckets drain and the doors fall back; When the early dawn in the east is blushing, He is limping still round the old, old track. Now he pricks his ears, with a neigh replying To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow, And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying; From the ring no more will the grey horse go. In a gully green, where a dam lies gleaming, And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting In the high rank grass by the dried-up course, Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse.