I thought once how the narrator had sung
Of our sweet dream-land: "Once upon a time,
In an angelic land of love sublime,
There lived two regal sisters, old and young."
And, as I mused it in her piercing tongue,
Which with such silver-spoken words did chime,
As if with hot coals from Isaiah's time
It had been touched, with holy brilliance stung;
Remembered I the hours I had not kept,
The frauds I'd played on those who’d best loved me,
Their agonies through which I had but slept,
How large the debt I owed of sympathy;
And softly in despair of life I wept—
When ponies sweetly spoke: "Not thee, but We."
My tail, 'tis dreadful thus to part with thee,
Who hast my constant solace ever been,
Whose silken curls I would adore, unseen,
Though joie de vivre were so far from me.
And pray thou thinkest me no infidel,
Thou, whom of all the tail-hairs in the world,
Though some perhaps more graciously were curled,
Thee nearest to my heart I ever held.
Dry thou my tears, I beg thee—for they rage—
Yet hope not thus to stall our parting slice.
Thy lovely, luscious violet must suffice
Yon water dragon's temper to assuage;
Lest now, for want of generosity,
Our virgin land in nightmares shackled be.
I see you are from Cloudsdale, by those stains
Upon your hoof. You are a rainbow-moulder.
Myself? See how I tend this tomcat's shoulder.
The animals confide to me their pains,
And, frightened, seek my shelter when it rains;
Though I, for my own part, could be much bolder.
What's this, a chill? The weather's getting colder.
I'd better head back home: Angel complains
If I get chilled. Until next time—what's that?
You ask me where I live? Ahh, well, I'll tell.
A cottage on the edge of Ponyville
Is mine. It is a sleepy habitat.
I do not fly much through the heav'nly dome;
The ground on which I stand—that is my home.
