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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538477" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Our Pilots</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538477" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">You that run the reddened ditch among the drifted leaves <br>May set the pace to conquerors and guide the sons of kings! <br>You that on your stealthy feet go through the wood like thieves <br>May lead your troop, a hundred horse, when once a holloa rings!<br>You that, if you lay in death, the poorest churl would pass- <br>You whose brush and mask and pads there's not a tramp would take- <br>Can set the pride of England riding jealous on the grass <br>And captains, earls, and countesses contending in your wake! <br>You're vermin to a vast of folk, but glory to a few. <br>What is it in your creeping stride that calls and calls and calls? <br>What is it, when the racing pack runs on from scent to view, <br>That rallies us to ride our best - dead straight - and chance the falls?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Henry+Ogilvie">William Henry Ogilvie</a></strong></div>

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