Беглец The runaway

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,
  We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'
  A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
  The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head
  And snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.
  We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,
  And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,
  Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
  'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.
  He isn't winter-broken. It isn't play
  With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
  I doubt if even his mother could tell him, "Sakes,
  It's only weather". He'd think she didn't know !
  Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'
  And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
  And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
  And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
  He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
  'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,
  When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,
  Ought to be told to come and take him in.'
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В ту пору снег густой валил,
На горном пастбище мы встали,
И кто-то Моргана спросил:
Чей жеребёнок в этом стане?

Малыш тут фыркнул, побежал,
Копыта звонко зазвучали,
Он тонким голосом заржал,
Как будто его испугали.

Малыш боялся хлопьев снега
И от него пытался бегать,
И мать ребёнку рассказала,
Что о погоде этой знала:

Что скользкий, зачастую, лёд
И он, пожалуй, твёрже камня,
Малыш тогда не упадёт,
Когда расставит ноги прямо.

Но в этот миг, малыш летит.
«Кто бы подумать только мог,
Что упадёшь ты со всех ног»?! –
Ребёнку мама говорит.