Roads are flowing everywhere
     In the night, beneath the moon.
But one of them the homing mare
     Is certain of; and soon

The barn will be in plainest sight,
     Grey beyond the grove.
To her the misty way is bright,
     As if another drove.

She points an ear at every turn
     Before a hoof arrives.
What hand is here from which to learn?
     Who is it sits and drives?