On Earth Ponies
The works and the days they are
Done with, the long stretch of
Agrarian years they are
Done with all, the call of the trees is
Done with, and accomplished the
Apple demands—family and the
Weight of duty.
Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—
Ever faithful ever true.
Ponies of the earth, we the movers
Of the grain, who tend the vineyards
Of the Grapes, who are the growers
Of Apples—
Who love the Good Earth.
Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—
Ever faithful ever true.
No flyer of clouds am I, nor my
Ponies those who build pillars
Of cloud—These hooves built for
Hard things are, built for the
Slow things are to guard and for
Living things are the hooves of
The Ponies I come from meant.
Oh, but the Earth was ever mine—
Ever faithful ever true.
And I have no magic because I need
None, need no wings, need no
Wine of heady sort to grace tongue
And no mysteries in runes. I have
World enough, and time,
And commands to ask not of
Tomorrow
But only to enjoy the lilies of the
Field
Which is to say
That the love of Earth is mine and
The World is enough.