Behold the Pale Horse

Searching through old word files in the My Documents folder led my to this poem. I'm positive I didn't write it. I have no idea what it's from or why I ever might have thought to save it.

The wind blows in the night
The bough moves to and fro
The rustling that begins a dream of suffering
Pain for the victim and same for the inflicter
Woe to they who behold the pale horse

Also, as a poem, it kind of sucks.