"My dream is to show the fire which comes out of the horses' nostrils; the dust which rises from their hooves. I want this to be an infernal waltz."

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Wake, soldier wake, thy war-horse waits To bear thee to the battle back;-- Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates,-- Thy dog would break thy bivouac; Thy plume is trailing in the dust, And thy red falchion gathering rust.

— Thomas Kibble Hervey