"O young cavale, with fierce gaze,

Who runs in meadows of fat grass filled, The foam of snow silvers your mouth,

Sweat runs down your polished flanks.

Vigorous child of the Thracian plains,

You hover at the river's edge,

You flee, you leap, your mane in the wind

Fallow deer could hardly follow your trail.

But soon, bending on your strong hocks,

To the bold tamer in vain rebel,

You will submit, humble and no less beautiful,

And your white teeth will gnaw the bit!"

Leconte de Lisle