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Horses lend us the wings we lack.
Through his mane and tail the high wind sings, fanning the hairs who wave like feather’d wings.
When I bestride him, I soar. I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical that the pipe of Hermes.
He doth nothing but talk of his horse.
He has galloped through young girls’ dreams, added richness to grown women’s lives, and served men in war and strife.
When I hear somebody talk about a horse or cow being stupid, I figure it’s a sure sign that the animal has outfoxed them.
God forbid that I should go to any heaven in which there are no horses.
The horse. Here is nobility without conceit, friendship without envy, beauty without vanity. A willing servant, yet never a slave.
Riding a horse is not a gentle hobby, to be picked up and laid down like a game of solitaire. It is a grand passion.
A horse is wonderful by definition.
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