Serpent hair that snakes in all directions
Is nourished by the self-same blood which sprang
(In that golden age of resurrections)
Great Pegasus of whom the poets sang:
" A wingéd steed, unwearying of flight,
Sweeping through air swift as a gale of wind."
What, aground, exhibits confusion’s spite,
Kills all in sight, ends in death’s-head chagrin,
Can, if freed to its lighter element,
Bear the thunderbolt of Zeus, then, rising,
Ride heaven above the mad inclement.
Touching ground, the hoof immortalizing
The strike with a spring sacred to muses,
He again takes wing, earth’s bounds refuses.
 
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