The Dance of Pegasus
He was a horse with golden wings.
He flew better than any bird that sings.                  
A flying horse, of all things!
(He was a bit odd, I'm told.)

He was born full-grown and winged and wild.
He fled to the slopes of Mount Helicon mild.
And became a tale to be told to a child
(If I may make so bold.)

But he was no tale; he was real.
On the winds like a gull he wheeled.
His snow-white hide showed no weal
Made by whip or spur.

But if anybody got a notion to ride,
Away the winged horse fleetly flied.
Only poets even tried
To touch the shining white fur.

But for these poets Pegasus knelt on the grass.
The sun shimmered on his coat like glass
As he shifted his wings, a yellow-feathered mass,
And bared his back.

When the poet had mounted, Pegasus stood.
Making sure he was on firm and good,
He spread his wings and soared over field and wood
With his uncanny flight-knack.

The earth was under the poets' feet; they rode a horse,
But one that could fly, of course!
He lifted them toward the heavens, on an unerring course
To the cloud and the path of the sun.

One hand in the golden mane, one on the satiny neck,
Knowing he had Pegasus at his beck
And call, many a poet's mind became decked
With grandeur, and he laughed at the fun.

With no sound but Pegasus's wingbeats,
And the earth so far beneath their feet,
Happiness and dreaminess would delete
Any thought of danger.

Indeed, there was none.
Pegasus only flew them for fun.
The stallion, with pelt like snow and wings like sun,
Loved the ones who could- er-

Well, the ones who knew what it was like to fly,
To wheel and dance in the timeless sky,
To let their own wings carry them high-
The ones like us.

For I assume if you're reading this poem,
Or even just sitting there at home,
You know a little what it's like to roam
The skies, on Pegasus.