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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 4 (July 1, 1935.)

The Race

The Race.

Clatter of hoofs and whip and spur,
Straining eyeballs and panting breath,
The brown track swims in a hazy blur,
And the Field rides neck and neck with death.
And then the Victor came,
Swift, swift as wind or wave or running flame.
Red-gold shimmering, shod with fire,
Storming along to his heart's desire;
Satin and sinew racing by,
With flaring nostril and full bright eye,
And thundering rhythm of hoofs which beat
To the ecstasy of his flying feet;
Neither for guerdon, nor gold nor fame,
But pride of his strength and joy of the game,
Grace and beauty, spirit and pride
All compact in that red-gold hide
Like wind, like water, like wind-whipped flame,
And the crazed crowd roaring his name—his name—
While the brown earth blurs and the blue sky spins
“He wins, He wins, Red Terror wins.”