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On a Picture of a Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac
| Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood, | | Even where horrible green parrots call
and swing. | | My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud. | | I knew that horse-play, knew it for a
murderous thing. | | What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat, | | And that alone; yet I,
being driven half insane | | Because of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheat | | In the mad abstract
dark and ground it grain by grain | | And after baked it slowly in an oven; but now | | I bring full-flavoured wine
out of a barrel found | | Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew | | When Alexander’s empire
passed, they slept so sound. | | Stretch out your limbs and sleep a long Saturnian sleep; | | I have loved you
better than my soul for all my words, | | And there is none so fit to keep a watch and keep | | Unwearied eyes
upon those horrible green birds. |
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By PanEris
using Melati.
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